The Unsung Past
by tajuki
Summary: "In the rich textures of gray, where black and white mesh to create reality, we must realize that there were heroes on both sides, the blood of the innocent on the hands of all." Albus Dumbledore, from Foreword. A Founders Saga.
1. Foreword and Acknowledgements

Disclaimer: All characters, places and ideas associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. Those unrecognizable from the four canon books are the property of Tajuki. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation.

Author's Note: The credit for this spectacular foreword goes to Soupofthedaysara. Sara, thank you so much for tackling this part of the project for me. It is better than anything I could have hoped to write. 

Another Note: It is important to state first off that this is a companion piece to my series including _It May Be Raining, The Road To Nowhere, and _Where Madness Gives A Bit_. Please, if you have the time to dedicate to them give them a read. It is not necessary, however, to read them to understand this story. In the last work _Where___ Madness Gives A Bit Ginny decides to tell the story of the Founder who have, up until this point, been silenced. A battle, a friend and a death spurned her to tell the story for them, __The Unsung Past. Please enjoy it. _

Foreword

                History was written by those who have hanged heroes. The victor always chronicles the battle. The campaign has been long and the victory only just secured in a war betwixt the proverbial good and evil. The outcome of the crusades of the Hogwarts Founders can only now be set down in the honored historiography of these illustrious isles. In the rich textures of gray, where black and white mesh to create reality, we must realize that there were heroes on both sides, the blood of the innocent on the hands of all. 

                The story of the Founders, until now largely speculative, can now be written with a clear certainty, the veil of centuries now can be lifted. They are now free to tell their story, the story of their children, the story of their chosen protectors, and the story of the heirs to those chosen. It is a tale of the purest good, of the blackest evil, and the many degrees of each that lie within the extremes. Complicated as it seems, this is a worthwhile pursuit that will benefit generations to come. It is a warning to those who seek absolute power, for absolute power corrupts absolutely, and a gift of encouragement to those who may falter in the quest to uphold justice, truth and honor. 

                The intermediary through whom the Founders have made their deeds known is an author of great skill, profound insight, infallible objectivity and no experience. Virginia Weasley, in her authorial debut, has given us an invaluable treasure that showcases her unique gift, her tireless research, and limitless dedication to the truth. It is a feat many seasoned writers could not conquer, although a few select have tried, while remaining as faithful to the players as a play-write could hope to be. My thanks and adulations to Miss Weasley are therefore her due for creating this uniquely realistic account of the lives and deeds of the Hogwarts Founders.

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  

Order of Merlin, First Class

Acknowledgements

                A very wise person once told me when I had almost given up on humanity, "You do yourself and the people you love a great injustice when you turn a blind eye and a deaf ear on evil and deceit. It is the duty of everyone who still draws breath to seek out the truth and find the good in their fellow human beings. Otherwise, hell would have swallowed us up a long time before this." 

                That small grain of truth stayed with me through an ordeal that I was unsure I had the strength to endure. This story would have remained untold if it had not been for the urgings of this one inspiring individual. Indeed, she still encourages me today. She is an invaluable friend and one of the best people that I have had the fortune of knowing. I hope that I could resemble her in any small way. Lucy, you are my rock. 

                Others that I have been privileged to know have also been an inspiration in writing this story. Although I didn't have the honor of meeting the Founders of Hogwarts, their struggles and victories which had been entrusted to me to tell, I owe them a great debt. It was their children and the chosen protectors of their houses that have taught me a great deal about myself and who I would like to be. I owe them more than they will ever know. 

                To Maren who in many ways resembles her heir, Lucilla Malfoy, your strength and bravery have become my own. 

                Galahad, a noble knight who dedicated his life to the goal of peace and the abolition of the Slytherin's black hold on the wizarding world: your sacrifice will go unnoticed no longer. 

                Isaiah, bravery is too weak a word for you. Your courage in battle changed the course of history. Though you didn't survive the Army of Slytherin, your efforts and the efforts of the men that followed you, gave all for the cause you fought gallantly for, saved us all. 

                Azria, a wise and kind lady, your abilities as the seer of the Hufflepuff line saved many. It was your planning, diligence and insight that thwarted evil again and again. I hope that my account will do you honor, though words cannot express fully the contributions you've made and the endless effort you gave for the side of good. 

                Faramir, for what is just and true, you have given all. Your family was murdered—a punishment for your selfless deeds and unfailing courage. Your sister, whom I had the great honor of speaking with briefly, was killed among them. As selfless as you were and just as innocent, she was silenced before her story was ever made known. Just as voiceless as her, Faramir, your story will finally be told. It is the only small justice that I can impart for a million injustices that have been viciously exacted on you and your family. I regret that I can do no more. You are the exemplar of bravery and nobility, not noble of blood but of character, which far outweighs title and land.

                To Mungo, I shall always remember you with love. If courage is the capacity to conquer one's fear, you were the most courageous person I ever met. Not once had you handled a sword or fought bravely for your house and your friends. Your battle was with the dying. It was perhaps the most profound moment in my life standing there in the middle of swirling chaos, war, death and destruction watching you heal. Spent, the last of your energy leaving you as you tirelessly helped one hopeless case after another. When Galahad was brought to you, you knew as I did that there was nothing you could do for him. In that last moment, as your aid tent was under siege, the injured slaughtered, you made a sacrifice that was not expected nor asked of you. You gave your last reserves of strength and energy to a dying man that he might die with as little pain as possible. Some would have said that it was a waste, dying for a dying man. They would have been wrong and fools for thinking so. It was no waste. It was the purest gesture of the heart to die for your friend. It was courage in a form that I may never witness again. 

                Here is their story. Do them justice and take it to heart.

Virginia E. Weasley


	2. Homecoming

Disclaimer: I really don't have much to disclaim on this one. The canon Founders and their school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry belongs to Rowling. I can safely claim the rest of the characters, the Founders' children and heirs (though some of their names have been borrowed from various literary icons such as Crichton and Tolkien) and the plot of this story. 

Author's Note: I feel that I must make the warning right from the off that this will be a historical fiction in which I intend to take on the challenge of writing the Founders, the school and the subsequent schism in ideology from the historical context of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. It is my goal in writing this piece that the story remains faithful to history as well as the canon ideas set forth by Rowling as well as creating an enjoyable piece of fiction. In the Foreword and the Acknowledgments, you might have noticed that this is a story that is ghostwritten as Ginny Weasley. It alludes to many events and situations that you might not be familiar with. That is because this is a companion piece to a trilogy that I finished a while back that includes, among other events pertinent to this story, our cannon characters Harry, Draco and Ginny traveling back to the fourteenth century to participate in the last great battle that will end this story. As a result of the death of one of the characters Ginny decides to write the story that the Founders and their children never got the chance to tell. It is not imperative that you read the series to be able to understand this work (but I encourage you to do so). You will be able to understand it just fine without having experienced the trilogy. Enjoy _The Unsung Past._

Chapter One

Homecoming

_"His family motto, echoing Richard the Lionheart, appeared above the coat of arms. 'Mes compaingnons cui  j'aimoie et cui j'aim…Me di chanson'. She paused. "Companions whom I loved, and still do love…Tell them my song."_

_                -Epilogue from 'Timeline' by Michael Crichton. _

                Following the reign of the pious Henry III, that of his son Edward was a dynamic one. One full of great political change, deep religious fervor, expansion of an increasingly powerful kingdom and a struggle for sovereignty. It was also a very dangerous age for those outside of the most powerful force in the western world at the time: The Church. 

                At the moment, Edward's kingdom was at peace and enjoying mightily the prosperity of the land; agriculture was booming, there was a great increase in population. Save one pesky dispute with Flanders in the last decade, the wool trade made up a huge amount of the kingdom's exports. 

                There was an expansion of the kingdom in the past five years as the unruly Celtic chiefs of Wales had been subdued by the noble and holy king, where he dotted the hilly landscape of  that region with a series of dominating castles like that of Caernarvon. His son, Edward II had been accepted by the barbarous Welsh as the first English Prince of Wales as their principality. This had not been achieved since Roman times, and had united them with England again. 

                But also in this time there were two great affairs which divided Edward's attention: the first was a complete reform of the of the royal and feudal systems that was painfully overdue. The second: still more important, joining England's warlike neighbor to the north, Scotland, to her into a single kingdom. When, by chance, the opportunity came upon the death of the Scottish King Alexander, fallen from his horse at the age of forty-four, leaving his granddaughter—a little girl named Margaret, the throne. Known to her people as the Maid of Norway, because her father was the King of Norway, Margaret had been called immediately back to her troubled lands. She was also in need of a husband. 

                This was an opportunity that Edward seized at once. The two kingdoms could merge naturally, and without conflict, if the Maid should marry his son. He began negotiations with the Scots from his home in the British territory in Northern France known as Gascony. 

                Edward I possessed a formidable athletic stature that made him a match for anyone in the joust. Along with his broad shoulders and imposing person, Edward possessed a shrewd mind, like that of a lawyer. This combination would make him famous among the monarchs of England before him and yet to come. He was also a bit of a nostalgic dreamer. Like his father, Edward loved pageantry and was devoutly religious; he had already promised the pope another crusade. 

                Returning from Jerusalem, much like in the times of the great Lionheart, two men long kept from their homeland on such a crusade were landing on the misty shore with its dominant chalky cliffs looming ominously beyond, the sight of which warmed the heart of both. 

                "We have been gone for too long," one smiled and said to the other. 

                "And we have much to do now that we are back," the other one remarked, returning the smile. 

                Both were broad shouldered men of about twenty-five. One still possessed the careless air of youth, not marred by the unparalleled violence he had seen on his campaign to the east, but dazzled by the progress of the barbarians and savages that they had so foolishly left six years ago to banish from their holy land. He had a wide white smile and sandy brownish hair. In most ways he was the anathema of his companion and closest friend. 

                The taller of the two, a sober man with hair that was the flaxen color of harvested wheat, drew up the lengths of his scarlet cloak and hopped lightly to the shore. His heart was lighter as he stepped onto the soil of his birthplace. He loved his country. He was in love with life. 

                Both men wore the scarlet cloak of the crusader, marking them with distinction; a white cross proudly emblazoned across the chest of the garment. They were the subject of awe and admiration wherever they went. They were the heroes of the Christian people. 

                The taller man paid no attention to the admiration. There was nothing to admire. They had set out to destroy a people. A people who had taken their rightful land of the Bible. They had killed a few and accomplished nothing. The city still belonged to the Moors and Saracens.

                Other than the rich plunder they had taken from the few they dominated, there was no cause for such a fuss. He was greatly dismayed by their lack of success on such a Godly campaign. But he was eager to implement the style of learning that he had seen on his explorations of the east. 

                He was in awe when he had learned that the barbarians had far more advanced ways than the so-called "civilized"—the kingdom of England. Here there were only isolated schools for clergy, monasteries. There was a Dominican order not far from his estate in the northern country. No one would have believed that such schools existed anywhere in the world: schools for the masses. It was altogether revolutionary. 

                He wanted that. 

                He and his companion hastily made their way from Dover at the south of the kingdom and to the northern borders and beyond. His estate lay in Scotland, but he was a noble of the English King Edward. He and the rest of his kind were of the Norman tradition of knights and feudal lords, speaking French and keeping with the courtly ways of chivalry and loyalty. 

                His companion, though owning an expansive estate in the west at Christchurch, a port town on the mouth of the Avon River, made the long trip with him to his own estate. They were eager to speak with another in that region who would surely be interested in their scheme. 

                It was a homecoming that would shape the temperament of one of the men for the remainder of his life, though both were unaware as they drew nearer the river, across which lay his estate, a young boy waved eagerly with a broad smile as they landed and stepped to the shore. 

                The boy had red hair and a cheery face. 

                "Are you the lord of the manor beyond the hill?" he asked. 

                The taller, blond man kneeled and took the small hand offered him. "I am. Are you the lord of this manor?" he asked the boy in jest. To his surprise the boy nodded fervently. 

                "It is the home of my mother, though we have another estate to the south, sir."

                After a moment of quiet astonishment, several significant glances between himself and his companion, he turned back to the boy and asked, "Might I have your name, sir."

                The boy, smiling and tugging on his red cloak with the white cross and said, "It is Hugo. And yours is Salazar. My mother expects you."

                "Then be kind enough to take us to her," Salazar commanded gently of the boy. 

                Taking in his companion's similar dress, the boy added without ceremony, "You must be the Knight Gryffindor."

                "I am," Godric answered with an amused grin. 

                The boy took both of their hands, not in the least intimidated by their size, their weapons or their rank and led them up from the river to the house of his mother. 

                "I sent Hugo to greet you by the river. I sensed you would be coming," the lady of the manor said. She glanced timidly at Salazar and smiled at Godric. 

                "Your senses are, as ever, unfailing, lady," Godric offered with a jovial smile. "I wonder that your senses have not yet let you in on our new found scheme."

                "Pray tell me. I have not sensed more than your return," she said with wide and intrigued eyes. 

                "A proposition of business, of learning. Is Rowena yet here?" he asked haltingly. 

                "She has been at her estate in Eire this past year, but she comes this week." Turning to Salazar, Helga added with some reservation, "Did my letter not reach you?"

                Salazar looked solemnly up. "Apparently not, lady. Things have changed without my knowing."

                Helga did not pretend to get his meaning.

                "Will you both not dine with us tonight?" she asked brightly, gesturing toward the hall where a servant, Godric could just see through the doorway, was opening a book, selecting the evening's entertainment. 

                Salazar nodded darkly and followed the pair into the hall. He nearly cringed when he heard Helga announce that her husband would be in from his hunt presently. Instead he covered his obvious anger and discomfort with expert care and indifference. 

                Stealing glances at the now married woman, he had noticed that there was no great change in her from the six years since he had last beheld her. She was a woman of forceful presence and subtle beauty. Her wavy, golden hair was wound about her head in an intricate braid, framing a face that smiled too often. It was a smile that extended to her crystal blue eyes and through her very demeanor. She was always jovial and kind and had been his exclusive friend almost since he had come into possession of the lands that neighbored hers. He being English in a territory that was never favorable to that kind, she had kindly accepted his solemn and pensive society and lightened his every care with her presence. 

                He had hopes of marrying her when he had returned from Jerusalem. 

                But no. She was suddenly gone from him. 

                He felt the distance. 

                He knew she sensed it too. 

                "Is your sister married then?" Godric asked pleasantly. 

                Helga, intricate silver goblet in one finely crafted hand looked up in surprise. "My," she said in astonishment. "You foolish boys have lost track of all sorts of news while you were on campaign. I am astonished! My sister is not married. Verina is at a convent in Wilton. She has been there for nearly two years now."

                "The estate belongs solely to you then?" Salazar asked coldly. 

                "Yes, it does," Helga said in a measured tone. 

                He would have continued had not the lord of the manor entered in that moment. He was introduced as Sir Guy Ottery and Salazar disliked him immediately. 

                A tall man of about forty, Sir Guy looked as though he might have presented a challenge at the lists maybe twenty years ago. He was nothing now but the beginnings of an old man. 

                "_Sir Gawain and the Green Knight," the servant announced. He was something of a bard. He could read, which was an oddity among his class. Helga had probably taught him, Salazar thought.  _

                Among the courtly classes of the time it was customary to have a form of entertainment while dinner was had. It was a tradition of chivalry that, had Salazar felt the inclination of being rude, would have astonished him to have found in the home of any other Scot. The Norman tradition was well preserved among his house and that of his friend Godric. They spoke in French to each other. He made a point to speak French to Sir Guy as well. It pleased him to note that his accent was off. He had not been of his high station for long, unlike Godric and Salazar who had possessed their lands for many generations, and to whom the ways of courtly life were like second nature. 

                He could sense Helga's unease. He felt it justified. 

                _"Since the siege and the assault was ceased at Troy,_

_                The walls breached and burnt down to brands and ashes,_

_                The knight that had knotted the nets of deceit_

_                Was impeached for his perfidy, proven most true._

_                It was high-born Aeneas and his haughty race _

_                That since over provinces, and proudly reigned _

_                Over well-nigh all the wealth of the West Isles…"_

At the opposite end of the table, where Salazar had placed himself away from the others so that he could brood solitarily, Helga moved away from the group. Sir Guy entertained Godric and a slew of his hunting friends unaware of the tense conversation that was taking place at the opposite end, under the pretense of enjoying the epic recitation. 

                "I asked if you had gotten my letter, Salazar, because it contained important information." She paused and looked at him. "Important with regards to the people and affairs of this region."

                "It must have been mislaid,"  he answered, unaffected by her words. He continued to listen to the bard. 

                She continued to stare at his profile face. He had become more reserved through his travels, she discerned. He had never been so guarded around her in their former years as neighbors and friends. 

                _"Fair queen, without a flaw,_

_                She glanced with eyes of gray._

_                A seemlier that once he saw._

_                In truth, no man could say…"_

"I only bring it up because…well, it contained news of your mother's death," she said regretfully. 

                Salazar looked on her now. 

                "Did I hear you right?" he asked.

                She nodded slowly. "A fever carried her off nearly two months ago. I am sorry."

                "She was all the family I had," Salazar said to himself.

                _"At Michaelmas the moon_

_                Hangs wintry pale in sky;_

_                Sir Gawain girds him soon_

_                For travails yet to try…"_

"Have you been happy in your marriage?" he asked grudgingly as they left the hall and the boisterous merry-making of Sir Guy's party. Godric was among the loudest of them. 

                Climbing the stairs quietly next to him she thought. "Yes. I am well-settled. I have a family. Soon I shall have a child. I am happy."

                Salazar said nothing. He knew she was happy. He could not begrudge her the emotion. She deserved it. 

                Entering the nursery, lit only by a pale moonbeam, Helga laid a hand on the head of her stepson Hugo. His sleeping form stirred slightly but lay wrapped securely in blankets overlaid with a warm fur. 

                "He does not care for me much. He remembers happier times when his mother was alive," she said with a sad smile. 

                "When did she die?" Salazar asked gently, the proximity of Helga to him distracted him and he longed to be closer to her, to breathe the scent of her. 

                "About a year ago," Helga answered, moving past him as if sensing the slightest desire in him. "She was carried off in the birth of this one," she added, moving to a small crib at the other end of the room where a peaceful baby girl lay hidden mostly under what seemed like yards of fabric. 

                "What is she called?" Salazar said with a sinking heart. He could not feel ill will for these children. They were too innocent to be blamed for Helga's inconsistent heart.      

                "Azria."

                Salazar thought a moment. "She will be powerful."

                "You must marry and have a son." Helga moved closer to him, looking up into his eyes. 

                He set his jaw and felt that anger was more defensible right now that lust and so glared at her. "Why should I do that? So that she can promise him her love and break his heart?"

                Helga stepped away as if wounded. "Did I really do that?" 

                "You know you did."

                "That was a promise I made, Salazar, before you went off on your boyish quest. When troubles with the English king started you were not here. My lands were threatened. I could have lost everything."

                "So you sold yourself to an upstart loyalist pet of the crown for the price of your estate?" Salazar asked coldly. 

                "I could hardly be expected to wait around for you forever, could I?" Helga looked down at the sleeping child and then to the one at the opposite wall of the nursery. "Besides, I love these children and I am happy." She reached slowly behind her neck and unclasped a chain that hung there.

                With one, she grasped Salazar's hand and placed the chain in it. He looked down to see the locket there that he had given her seven years ago. 

                "Seven years of loving you in vain," he said sadly, softly. 

                "Not in vain," Helga corrected. "I still love you."

                Salazar looked into her eyes and suddenly became rigid, cool. He clasped the locket in one angry hand and said, "Save your love for your husband and your family, and forget me."

                She watched him walk away and said nothing more. 

                As he left, Salazar could hear the high and clear voice of the bard, still reciting over the noise of the drunken men. 

                _"Sweetly does she speak_

_                And kindling glances dart,_

_                Bent white and red on cheek_

_                And laughing lips part…"_

He saw himself out, leaving Godric to sleep off his merriment at the estate of Hufflepuff. He returned to his own lands, now so vastly changed, now so remarkably bear and lonely. 

                In the year of Our Lord 1270 a decision was made that would shape the course of history for centuries to come. 

                Joshua, a Jew and a moneylender walked along the river's bank where it cut through the grounds of the Slytherin estate north of the town of Greenhill. Distractedly he looked across to a meadow where sheep grazed and a shepherd dozed under the warmest sun of the bleak season. Incredibly cold, it was, this summer. 

                With a sigh of determination he had fixed upon his decision. 

                The project would be undertaken and, if these people were as powerful as they claimed they were, the labor might only consume two year's time. Under any normal circumstances a building project this monumental would take decades, maybe longer. The wages would be considerably less. The land was agreed upon. It was a situation that could not lose for anyone involved—and it was a noble pursuit. 

                The Jews of England were entirely at the king's pleasure. Although they were forbidden to own land or engage in ordinary trade, they were encouraged in the time of the Conquest in the new kingdom and enjoyed the protection of the Norman feudal system as financiers and money-lenders. Joshua, among many of this situation, had done considerably well for himself. Most money-lenders had done well in the kingdom, as the Christian religion decreed that usury was a sin. Jews could practice the lending of money with interest as free as they chose. Even the church had done business on many an occasion with the Jews to finance the great monastic and clerical building projects of the kingdom under Edward I. Indeed, Joshua had financed with a group of other money-lenders the great building project of the cathedral at Salisbury in the last decade. 

                And they were taxed handsomely for it. 

                But they knew their situation always remained, in this kingdom, at a constant threat. "Don not ever think that because you are useful to them, that you are secure," Joshua's father had always counseled him. He was wise for his thirty years, and shrewd, and well-educated, as most of his kind were. 

                He carried with him his decision to the fortified manor house where the others were in deep discussion. 

                Inside a debate was raging that Joshua was unaware of. 

                For the term of one week, friends who had always shared a limited society of people who possessed the same talents as them, had quarreled and bickered. 

                Once it was suggested that the institution only serve a select group of elite. 

                Helga had insisted that it be opened to all who expressed talent and desire—from any social position. 

                Rowena flew into a rage when it was suggested that the Dominicans staff the school. Cistercians from the monastery on her properties in Eire were the only ones disciplined enough to be considered, in her opinion. 

                Helga offered a piece of land across the river from her own castle. Salazar argued over ownership rights to the building. 

                Godric insisted that there was no other place for an institution of its kind than London itself. 

                Helga and Godric argued the point of royal interference there. 

                The two women were adamant that not only males should be admitted but females as well. 

                Salazar promptly left the room. 

                "I simply will not fund an operation that will exclude my kind," Rowena stated bluntly from her position at the window. 

                "And for a mind like hers," Helga said in her friend's defense. "It simply will not due without her and her staff of monks."

                Godric listened with quiet agreement. 

                "And the point, as Salazar himself put it, is to better our society through our talents of magic and healing. No one would argue that there was ever a better healer than Helga," Rowena said. 

                "No, I would not argue it," Godric said. 

                Rowena bit her lip and looked once more out the window. Her wool trade had done well in the last decade. Most of her lands were given over to grazing. She was in no want of money. If it came down to it, she could finance the school almost entirely. 

                She was a shrewd woman and therefore she would not pretend that that same thought did not pass at least once through the minds of her companions as well. But a school run by one of them alone would be less for it. They all had tremendous individual talents that would all lend themselves well to the institution that they envisioned. 

                And none of them were willing to give an inch on that vision. 

                She watched Salazar pace by the river. 

                Presently, Joshua was returning from the opposite bank across the bridge. He watched the wizard apprehensively. 

                She realized that Salazar had conceded a great deal already, letting Joshua in on the financing. Helga and Godric, and even Rowena herself had been cautious where this venture was concerned. None of them wanted to put up all of the capital at once. A financier was needed and Joshua was a safe partner, and reliable. 

                Salazar, Rowena knew, was suffering from Helga's scorn. On top of it they were against him, allowing an infidel a hand in their business concerning the school. He felt that God would soon visit wrath upon them for such a sin. 

                Rowena had always liked Joshua. He was an intellectual like her. And he was never uncomfortable in her society. Most men, save her few and far between visits with Godric and Salazar, shunned a woman of intelligence (and supernatural gifts on top of all of that). Joshua and his family had remained among her particular acquaintance and had come to this meeting on her particular request. 

                "I should speak with him," Rowena said finally. 

                Godric nodded slowly and Helga smiled. 

                "Joshua is on his way back. He looks as though he has made a decision. If it is no, thank him for me and see that he has proper provisions for his trip home. If he agrees, ask his terms and show him every kindness if he decides to stay on a while," Rowena instructed, moving to the door of the hall. 

                "We will," Helga said. 

                "We will send him on his way while you distract foul-tempered Salazar," Godric laughed, kicking his feet over the arm of his chair. (He would never do this when the lord of the manor were present). 

                "Have we ruined your plans?" Rowena asked gently as she met Salazar on the bridge above the river. 

                Salazar was leaning over, watching the rapids as they churned underneath.  "There is a lot of energy in this water."

                Rowena nodded. "You should put a wheel into it. This would be the ideal spot for a fulling mill."

                Salazar looked back at her and laughed. "Your wool is never far from your clever mind, is it, Rowena?"

                "No. I suppose it permeates my thoughts. You could build a different mill."

                Salazar nodded. He felt his bad mood lifting from him with the presence of her. "It does me well to see you, Rowena. It has been too long."

                "Ah yes. We women sit at home and brood and grow old and unattractive while you men lead the exciting lives. Tell me, what was Jerusalem like."

                "As cruel as it says in the Bible. What other city could kill the Savior of the world?"

                Rowena nodded and drew closer to him. "And you dislike it more because it is overrun with heathens."

                Salazar took a deep breath. He felt that she was trying to bait him. He would not bite. Instead he pushed away from the railings and said, "You, Godric and Helga had never ceased to be a part of this plan, from the very moment I conceived it. If you were to disagree, deny me your partnership, this was to be how I would woo you into business with me." He produced a silver chain, let it dangle from his fingers. 

                Rowena took in a sharp and apprehensive breath. She stared at the chain for a long time trying to guess the unreadable intentions of her friend. 

                "Salazar…I—," she began feebly. 

                "I want you to be my partner in this endeavor. I want Godric to, Helga. This is a token of my firm and constant friendship." He held the chain out to her. On the end was a small fleur-de-lis, silver with a sapphire set into the center. 

                Rowena let her breath out slowly. She had supposed too much. "For a moment I thought that you were going to give me—"

                "The locket that Helga gave back to me?" Salazar finished. "No. I would not cheapen you with such a secondhand trinket. On our way from the holy land and our failed conquest of the infidels we passed through a small monastic community on the borders of the kingdom of France. I was struck by the beauty of this small charm and could picture it on the neck of no other."

                Rowena blushed and allowed him to turn her away from him so that he could clasp it around her neck. He moved her long chestnut locks aside with one hand brushing her shoulder and for a moment she entertained thoughts of Salazar and herself that had often occupied her lonely hours in youth. 

                "I thank you. It is a beautiful gift from a dear friend. I should wear it always."

                "It would honor me if you would."

                She placed a hand on the trinket that hung at her heart and smiled. "Come. Will you not hear the financier's terms for our project? We can come to terms with the particulars of the agreement at another time."

                Salazar nodded solemnly and held his arm out to her. 

                They traced their steps back up to the Slytherin manor and into the hall where the others waited. Godric had a broad smile painted on his face. 

                The decision that Joshua had come to was apparent. 

                "My usual rate will be fair enough," Joshua was saying as the two entered. 

                Godric smiled and Helga nodded emphatically. 

                "Yes, Joshua. That is more than fair," she said enthusiastically. 

                Salazar moved to the periphery and said nothing, frowning as Rowena showed her friend and business associate out. He had declined all provisions and offer of accommodations. He would be in Glasgow by nightfall where his family was staying. 

                Salazar watched through the window as the two talked on as the Jew mounted his horse. 

                Rowena smiled and Salazar suddenly begrudged the Jew that smile. 

                He turned to Helga and Godric and smiled as the latter proposed a feast in honor of the new school. It would be an evening of quarreling over all aspects of the institution from its running to its staffing and admittance requirements. 

                But he gladly conceded and saved his reservations for the appropriate time. 

                Godric treated this night's feasting as if they were celebrating a plan already realized. Indeed, the place had not been decided and the curriculum was still to be sorted out, but he felt that those things would work themselves out. He couldn't see how such petty things mattered. The money was got and the idea solidified. There was nothing more to be done in his eyes. 

                He sat in discussion with Helga and her husband Sir Guy debating the spot. 

                She had easily convinced him that there was no other place for the school than right here on the Hufflepuff estate. 

                He quickly began to see reason and after several lines of the epic poem _Lais read aloud over dinner, he began to take Helga's view that there was no place better for the school. _

                "And it shall be a grand house of learning that should attract those eager to learn our craft from all over the island and beyond. Surely there will not be another school of its kind anywhere," Godric blustered. 

                Sir Guy raised his glass in jovial agreement. 

                "You know very well, Godric, that such schools of witchcraft do exist in the east. The Caliph had opened a center of learning in the east that promotes all sorts supernatural craft and healing. Or maybe you were too inebriated of the ruler's hospitality that it impaired your memory, for he took us through it himself. And that very place is where he presented you with your sword," Salazar said, taking a long drink from his cup before continuing, "Show them your sword. Let us hear of your heroism and the reward that the Caliph bestowed upon the right good Knight of Gryffindor."

                "Ah," Godric said grinning. "You are right. I nearly forgot the Caliph. How villainous of me that was." 

                Sir Guy laughed and began asking for the story. 

                The bard read on as if this were not an interruption. 

                "The Caliph," Godric began, "had a son, an undignified man whose love for gambling the family's money at high stakes landed him in a bit of difficulty. Needless to say, as my companion and I were walking down the main avenue of the market outside of the holy city, a man in quite a hurry, fleeing those he owed some serious debt jumped from a low rooftop and used me to break his fall." He looked to Salazar and smiled. "Of course, my faithful companion and friend would not let the offense go and so drew his sword. Eager to make amends, the young man asked for the name of the man he had wronged and was soon on his way."

                "We had forgotten about him entirely until a week later," Salazar had continued.

                "Then there was a message sent with armed guards from the Caliph. And we thought surely that we were to be killed." Godric laughed. "Indeed, I do not think that the old Muslim king knew that his son had indebted himself to two heathen Christians on a pilgrimage to his city."

                "God's city," Salazar corrected him. 

                Godric continued heedless of his friend. "You see, it is a custom of theirs. I saved him from a sound lynching. Now, if he were just any ordinary peasant, he would owe me the service of protection until he has saved my life as I had his."

                "But all he did was fall on you," Rowena said. 

                "Ah, but because of me he did not break his royal neck. He was able to outrun his pursuers," Godric said with an amused grin. "His father gave me this as a compensation for the inconvenience of being fallen on. It was cursed. An old beggar said that…I do not remember his exact words, but it was foreboding all the same." 

                "He said," Salazar continued, fingering his plate of untouched food in front of him. "This sword will decide the outcome when faced with the children of…It was a curious word he used…was it Satan? Satan's army?"

                "No," Godric said, laughing. "Children. An army of them."

                "Maybe he meant Lucifer?" Salazar said returning the smile. 

                "But the Caliph gave me this sword and, recognizing Salazar's coat of arms as a magical symbol, invited us to tour his royal center for magical learning."

                "But I envisioned a much more encompassing program of learning. The Caliph seemed to find only snake charming and herbology necessary to promote learning. I assured him that he was wrong."

                Godric smiled. "Ah, friend. You started a religious war with the king."

                Salazar raised his chin in defiance but made no attempt to argue. "I think that each gift we possess will be a valuable tool to the success of our institution of magical learning. Godric's knowledge of transformations and alchemy will be just as valuable as Helga's gift of healing and plant magic. Rowena's familiarity of the heavens and their meanings and her library of the history of magic will also be vital."

                "And Salazar will rule us all," Godric joked, raising his glass to his friend who glowered and narrowed his eyes. 

                "Salazar," Rowena spoke up. "Will be useful in teaching the arts of Daemonology and Necromancy."

                "And the art that he learned from the Arabs on our travels," Godric added. 

                "What is that?" Helga asked. 

                "Nothing of value. A magician's trick of no import," Salazar answered solemnly. 

                "He was taught by an old shaman to speak to the serpents that dwell under the earth," Godric said with a mocking grin. 

                "That sounds like a heresy, talking to serpents," Rowena said looking stricken and wide-eyed. 

                "What else did you learn from your travels?" Helga asked in an accusing tone, eyes leveled on him. 

                "Nothing worth mentioning," Salazar said. 

                "Then all is settled," Godric interrupted. "The school will be built just down the river at the site of land that the Hufflepuff estate has so generously provided. My own estate will provide all of the Purbeck marble the task should require and Rowena's Cistercians will serve as attending staff."

                "I wish to make it known that I am not fond of the idea of women attending. I do see their uses as far as the arts of healing go," Salazar said holding up a hand to silence a perturbed Helga. "But for the sake of the school's progress, I will concede for the moment on the stipulation that from ten years of the school's dedication I have the power to reform the admittance requirements as concerns gender, religion and social status."

                Rowena stared at Salazar for a long time while the others argued the case. Then she finally said, "We will agree to this stipulation. But at least two of us must agree with you if your decision is made against one of these groups."

                "It is a deal, then," Salazar said, offering his hand. Rowena took it and so did Godric. Helga was hesitant. She conceded a moment later with a feeling of regret that would forever unsettle her and cause her to look on Salazar as suspect from this moment on. 

                The next morning saw a departure of two of the members of the previous evening's discussions. 

                Salazar left his estate along with Godric who was to return to his own home in Christchurch to the south. Salazar would travel with him as far as Wilton. 

                The ladies remained at the Hufflepuff estate. 

                That morning as the two men made for England and Christchurch beyond that, the Jew Joshua returned from Glasgow to a meeting with Helga and Rowena. 

                With him was his daughter Rebecca, scarcely older than Hugo. 

                "The arrangements are all in order?" Joshua asked, handing the documents for the loan to Rowena who accepted them gratefully. 

                "A few minor details are still left to be hemmed in, but work will begin immediately. Marble has been donated by the family Gryffindor and Chilmark can be quarried for the heavier stonework from the opposite side of the forest there," Helga answered cheerfully. 

                "The lords Gryffindor and Slytherin should be returning in a month. They have been long gone in the east and have just recently returned. Lord Gryffindor makes his first trip home since he has come from the campaign and Lord Slytherin accompanies him on his journey." Rowena smiled peaceably. 

                "It is perhaps fortunate that I speak with you ladies in any case," Joshua said. 

                "You may do so freely. You are a friend here and one to whom we are greatly indebted," Rowena continued. 

                Joshua brought his daughter Rebecca forward placing a hand on each of her shoulders. She smiled up at the two great ladies with composure and grace. 

                "My Rebecca wishes to learn magic like the great King Solomon and like Moses and Aaron," Joshua said, smiling down at the child whom he was no doubt proud of. 

                "We have not the means to bring the Pharaohs to their knees, but I have a feeling we can place you in an area of magic that well suits you," Rowena consented, kneeling to the child. 

                "Can you heal the sick?" Rebecca asked eagerly. "I would like to heal the sick."

                Rowena looked to Helga. 

                "I will personally care for your child and teach her all that she wishes to know," Helga promised Joshua. 

                "And read the meanings of the stars like Solomon?" Rebecca asked. 

                "I know something about that," Rowena said taking the child's hands in hers. 

                "Come," Helga suggested. "Let us find Hugo and walk out to the river."

                Rowena glimpsed an ill look in her friend's face. She meant to inquire after her health, but thought that it would be tedious to make a fuss over a pregnant woman. 

                Joshua obliged and offered his arm to Helga as Rowena walked behind them with Rebecca and talked of the stars. 

                On the evening before they were to leave for England Salazar and Godric traveled through the moonlit landscape of the Hufflepuff to his own estate further down the river. His horse's lazy footfalls were the only sound for a long time, even though Godric was in high spirits. He kept silence sensing Salazar's mood. 

                "You are not happy with the shared ideas of the school," Godric said after a moment's hesitation. 

                Salazar was silent for several minutes longer. "I do not want for the school to be challenged in any way. Our position in the king's graces, though we are all unquestionably loyal subjects, is always precarious. If one disaster befalls the kingdom, who do you think the first to take the blame will be?"

                Godric said nothing. He had seen the point and he was just as anxious for a smooth founding as his friend. 

                "And how will it help our position any if we allow Jews to attend?"

                "I see your point there, Salazar. But why rail against the female sex so?" 

                Their horses turned and crossed the bridge at a slow gait and there was more silence from his companion. 

                "Rowena is really the only exception to the female rule. All other women are hindered by intense feeling and over abundance of emotion. They do not make for good students. Save for her they do not possess the rational mind needed."

                Godric smiled. "Surely you don't mean all women besides Rowena. Helga is one of the most competent—"

                Godric was not allowed to complete his thought. 

                "Helga is the most irrational, emotionally unstable of all. She has a gift for the future that even she does not understand and cannot control and she is of the most temperamental mind. I oppose the teaching of the female sex on the basis of Helga as the archetype of women," Salazar explained hotly.

                Godric said nothing and was letting the point pass as the manor, great Norman structure of the Slytherin castle came into view and they turned that way from the river. 

                "But there may be another that I would categorize among Rowena's class of women," Salazar conceded quietly. 

                "Pray," Godric said sarcastically. "Who could be so lucky in your esteem? You condemn everyone."

                "Verina, if she is as constant as I remember her and not so much influenced by her sister's imprudent quick and thoughtless action."

                Godric blinked. "Is that why you mean to visit Wilton and come away with me tomorrow?"

                "I have business there," Salazar said coldly and spoke no more, retiring to his room for the evening and leaving Godric's mind in turmoil about his companion's true intentions. 

                Sometime after the mid of night, emerging from his chambers in a thick cloak of the deepest black velvet, Salazar paused once to be certain that no one stirred. 

                All was quiet and he proceeded. 

                For the third night in a row, he walked silently to the ground floor and out of a small side door in the outer bailey of the complex. Nearing the place where his mother had been recently buried on the cliff under the yew where his father had long rested, he produced a candle of black wax and his wand. 

                Kneeling in the dew-soaked grass of the grave he set the candle directly in front of him and breathed a deep breath as if to clear his thoughts. Lighting the candle with a simple "Lumos" he closed his eyes and focused on one thread of thought. His emotions were in such turmoil that he had not been able to reach out to her in a way that she could grasp. Both nights had ended in nothing more than a curious breeze. But now he focused on that string of communication to which he reached out to her in one sorrowful sentiment: "I am sorry I was not able to be with you in your last days."

                He felt the faint breeze again.

                He knew he had reached her tonight. 

                Grasping even more to that one thread of communication, Salazar then set his thoughts to converse with her, allowing her to speak to him as well. The grass stirred behind him and he could hear faint footfalls, bare feet. 

                He could feel her answer: "You do what you can, son."

                Thinking that this was all that he would hear from her he set his mind in reply, but was surprised when he felt another bit of communication tugging at his highly tuned mind and soul:

                "And I am sorry that your life has not come to pass as you had wished it to."

                His heart fell. Of course she knew about Helga. 

                "You were never meant for her, but destined always to love another."

                Salazar pushed his consciousness further. "Then why do I feel betrayed?"

                "Because the one you love has left you. But there is a way to bring her back."

                Salazar's mind was confused, but he held tight to their connection. "How can I bring her back?"

                There was a long pause and for a moment he had thought that she had forsaken him. 

                Then she offered: "I would not come to you last night and the night before because I knew that you would not listen to what it was that I had to say. You must tonight."

                "I will, mother. With all my heart and mind and soul."

                "Will you?"

                There was another pause. 

                "Take the book that has belonged to our house for centuries. The Gospels. Your bride is wed to the church and these will bring her back to you."

                "Verina?"

                "You know it is so. Offer the Gospels in illuminated detail and gold leaf to the convent for her and she will be yours."

                Salazar felt the connection sever but remained for sometime longer to meditate on what his mother had told him from her position beyond the grave. He recalled their many conversations when she was yet living. She did not approve of Helga. Verina, being kind and submissive and in every way her sister's opposite had endeared herself to his mother and he would always remember their fondness for each other.

                As they set out the next morning, nothing was said and Godric remained silent. He did, however, note the curious item that his companion placed gently in the saddle bag on his horse, Sodom. 

                It was a pleasant journey and they were never challenged, not even when they came to the border town of York. They were both in possession of great authority in these parts, well known and respected. 

                In their parting at Sarum, Godric gave his friend the blessing that his business go well at Wilton. He and his horse, Apollonius, boarded a barge that would take them down river three days to his home in Christchurch. 

                Salazar saw his friend off and afterwards turned to the great gray presence of the Salisbury Cathedral behind him to pray. He prayed for his friend's safe journey, Helga's children, and the founding of their school. Above all this he prayed for fortitude in the task that was required of him to perform this very instant. He had come to see the bishop here and ask for his blessing and support on their school. Before he reached Wilton he would also speak to the bishop at Canterbury about the same matter. 

                The church's acceptance of their institution would be vital to its endurance in the coming times that he feared would have many trials in store for them all. 

                The blessing was given at Salisbury and at Canterbury. 

                He now set his sights on Wilton and the convent there. 


	3. A School Is Founded

Disclaimer: The Founders belong to JK Rowling and other companies associated with the Harry Potter series. I own the majority of the cast here along with the general plot. Some descriptions that appear in this chapter were taken from Marie de France's _Lanval _('The Longman Anthology of British Literature, Vol.1') and _The Tale of Sir Orfeo can be found in the book 'Sarum' by Edward Rutherford on pages 587 and 588. A complete bibliography will accompany this story at its completion, I promise. _

Author's Note: I really haven't gotten a response to this, which makes me extremely nervous. Irish Lass: thank you very much for the review. I will continue with this story no matter what type of reviews (or lack of) I receive. It's sort of a challenge to myself—one that I cannot resist. Although I did say that this would be a historical fiction, I didn't mean to scare people off. It will be steeped in as much fantasy and storytelling as it is in historical fact, and well worth the read, I promise.  

Chapter Two

A School Is Founded

_"That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur _

_To prick the sides of my intent, but only_

_Vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself_

_And falls on th'other."_

_-Macbeth, William Shakespeare's 'Macbeth'_

                Upon his return home, Godric's reservations concerning his friend and his secretive behavior dissipated into an intense impatience to be home again. There was one person in particular that he wished to see very much. He hesitated at the gate of his family's estate in fear that Salazar's fate would become his. 

                He was the one person whom Godric thought luck was always smiling upon. 

                But Helga had rejected him, married another when she was promised to him.

                Would the one occupier of his thoughts do to him the same? He would like to think he could not handle the pain half so well as Salazar had. But then, he thought, it seemed Salazar was intent on marrying Helga's sister just to spite her. 

                He wondered if the founding of the school would stand such a rivalry as they were brewing between the two of them, Helga and Salazar. 

                But she was waiting for him.

                He could see her upon the battlements of the old Norman fortification that stood at the mouth of the harbor on the cliff. 

                She looked out over the road but he was sure she had not seen him yet. 

                Rose. 

                A cousin by the marriage of his mother's sister and a knight of Sarum. They held an estate further up the Avon, a sizable piece of land that was successful in wool production and had a fulling mill upon the river to process it. 

                And there was no other that would make Godric as happy as she had. 

                Presently she turned from the road to look out over the harbor and the port. From the light of the red afternoon sun, her hair seemed amber and he stopped his horse for a moment on the road to watch as it was caught by a light breeze. 

                He and Apollonius came to the stable where a boy took the horse and greeted him solemnly but courteously. 

                Wasting little time, Godric moved through the empty rooms of the castle and up to the battlements to greet his love whom he had not seen for seven years. They had been kids when he last looked on her. 

                Careful to keep the hinges of the heavy oak door from creaking, he had taken care to remove his chain mail gloves and his sword so that she would not hear him as he approached. It was a game they had always played as children. A game he most often lost for having not her graceful and quiet way of moving about. 

                Just behind her, Godric resisted the overwhelming urge to reach out to her. Instead he spoke:

                "Orfeo was a king

                In England, a high lording. 

                Orfeo most of anything

                Loved the delight of harping," he said, repeating the words of her favorite Arthurian legend. It was a tale of Orpheus and his lady, Dame Euridice. They had spoken the words often to each other in youth. His favorite pastime was blundering with the wording and sending the usually even tempered Rose into a rage. 

                She turned and faced him with a sad smile now. Her brown hair and eyes to match looked on him with fondness and she continued the ballad:

                "Where'ere thou be thou wilt be fetched

                And torn apart your limbs be all

                None can help you, no one shall

                Tomorrow, lady. We shall call."

                It was a bittersweet poem, made even more so by the mournful tone of her voice. Godric's heart sank to look on her and he could tell she was unhappy. 

                The story of Euridice and Orpheus was a sad one. She lay asleep in an orchard one day when in a dream she was told that she would be stolen away from her love. In telling him this, frightened as she was she took comfort that he would stop this and protect her, come what may. Guards were placed around her night and day to ensure the safety of his love. Orpheus could, indeed, do no more than that. 

                "They formed in ranks on every side

                And said with her they would abide

                And die there for her, every one

                Before the queen be from them gone

                And yet the midst of that array 

                By magic she vanished away."

                Godric paused. He wanted to speak, to ask her what her troubles were now that he was back. How could she have any at all if she still loved him? He finished the poem in tradition instead. 

                Sir Orfeo had lost his love. He became a beggar, spending his wealth and his life on trying to find her. He saw at last one day, hunting in the forest, the faery king with his lords and ladies. The ragged Sir Orfeo sees among the ladies, by chance alone, his own lost wife. 

                "Then he beheld her, and she him too

                And neither to other a word did speak;

                She for pity, to see him so, 

                Who had been a king, now so weak. 

                And then a tear fell from her eye:

                And the other women a tear did spy

                And made her swiftly ride away."

                He had stopped when she ceased to hold his gaze but looked to the ground and brushed at her cheek. He wondered to see her cry and his dread mounted worse than any terror he had ever experienced in the fray of a far away and ungodly land. 

                Sir Orfeo did not give up so without his love and rode back to the faery castle and played his harp before the faery king. The Faery King out of pleasure for the song offered Orfeo a reward. 

                Rose looked up a moment later and continued:

                "'Sir,' he said, 'I beseech thee

                That thou wouldest give to me

                That fair lady that I see

                That sleeps under the orchard tree'"

                He approached her and gently raised one of her delicate pale hands to his lips and said, "I would have wandered a hundred years to find you. Please, lady, tell me why I find you so, weeping as I return?"

                She looked pityingly at him and said, "Godric, your father is dying."

                Rowena sat by herself on the short meadow grass that covered the sloping hill all the way up to the new site. She came to watch the workers nearly every day and counted them as neither Godric nor Salazar returned. They had not said how long they would be, but she had thought it barbarous of both of them to take leave when there was so much left to be considered for their pet scheme. 

                She took it upon herself to hire the team of masons, architects and builders that would design and construct the site and building. Work was going remarkably well. The below ground recesses of the school were near complete now that she looked on them. Massive beams extended into the air and crossed each other at right angles. The lofty castle would stretch half as high into the heavens as the great cathedral at Salisbury. No buildings save those of the house of God, Rowena reasoned, should scrape His majestic clouds. She hoped Salazar and Godric approved…but mostly Salazar, as this was his most cherished dream first of all. 

                She looked upon everything, their plans, dreams, visions and prayed that she would not be the cause of its failure. Indeed, this place could last forever, well past the memory of all of them. 

                She smiled to think what the students of these halls might think of them, the Founders, hundreds of years from now. Would they be known as great promoters of learning? Tyrants? Hypocrites? Would her colored past return to plague the school? This is what she feared the most. 

                Lying down upon the grass, she proposed to herself not to think on it any longer. Helga, her confidante for sometime now, would keep her secrets and scandals and tell no one. There was only one other who could ruin it all. She thought on him little, but when he did come unbidden to mind, the memory of him tore at her heart and made her curse her own fallibility. But for all that, he had given her two very dear children. But he had rejected them for having possessed her "ungodly" qualities. She thought nothing of that. Her boys were angels. 

                When the school was built she would move them here. It was a place that would more widely accept them. 

                But for now, her boys remained in Eire and she missed them terribly. 

                "Lady," came a gruff man's voice. 

                Rowena sat up and looked around. 

                A messenger, she guessed, stood above her and held a bit of folded parchment with a seal. He was backlit by the afternoon sun and so she failed to discern his face. 

                She recognized the seal in burgundy wax and affixed with a gold ribbon, seal of a lion on a field of French lilies. It was from Godric. 

                She nodded, dismissing the messenger, taking the parchment from him as he departed. 

                Quickly she broke the seal, forgetting all of her previous thoughts. 

                She gasped at the contents. 

                "Poor Godric," she whispered as she read. 

                His father was failing fast. Salazar was with him at Christchurch…and he was married. 

                Rowena blinked at this bit of news. 

                She had no time to think on that, however. She made to get up from her lazy spot and headed out to the woods. The Hufflepuff chapel lay beyond and she made for it. She prayed for the soul of the valiant Godefroi. He had always been kind to her and had come between her and disaster on more than one occasion. 

                He felt a stirring in his heart that he mistook for nerves. 

                It was not as if he mistrusted advice from beyond the grave, for that was his trade. It was his own feelings that were alien and prone to lead him in the wrong direction. Helga seemed to be the prime example. He could not remember a moment before his journey to Jerusalem and back when he had doubted that the rest of his years would be spent with Helga at his side. 

                It was her boldness. She was unlike any woman that he had ever known. Strong. Able to do for herself. She had a self-possession that attracted him automatically. Indeed, as he watched her again upon his return, he was thrown by how cool she had been when breaking his heart. There was at least one part of her that was unrecognizable to him. But, he reasoned, seven years is a long time. And no one is constant. 

                A lifetime had passed and the people inhabiting it. 

                He was learning to live in this changed world. 

                But he would live for the inanimate stone, marble halls of his school and leave love forgotten. He would marry as his mother had instructed. But love…that was another time that had passed him by. 

                He raised his chin and entered the shadowy confines of the modest convent in the valley of the river Avon. The cathedral at Salisbury lay about a mile behind him and he approached with the blessing of the church for his institution. He was no more deserving in fortune than to have this. 

                He expected no more. 

                The abbess was surprised to see him when he came to meet her in the small chapel. 

                "Have we business, Lord Slytherin?" she asked. 

                "Yes," he answered her solemnly. He produced the magnificent script that had accompanied him on his journey from Scotland. For three hundred years his family had guarded this one treasure jealously. Even as a child it was his greatest pleasure to look at the delicate and colorful illuminations for hours. 

                He was a bit distressed at the price his wife would be bought. He was stunned when his mother had suggested that he give this precious possession over to the convent (which was undoubtedly where it belonged). It was a jeweled cover with the saint Peter portrayed on the cover. From the monastery island off the coast of Northumbria there was at one time a fine school of illumination from which this book had been produced. His father's father and before had preserved its artistry with care ever since the destructive days of the Vikings. 

                He set it in front of her. 

                A look of astonishment and delight painted her plain face and she blinked, looking up at him in an unspoken question. 

                "Yes," he answered. "You may open it. It belongs to this convent once again."

                In January of 878 a sudden attack took the Saxon people by surprise. This very convent was cleared of its nuns and valuables (of which there was a considerable amount. Convents and Monasteries possessed much of the kingdom's wealth in this period). Among those noble thanes that had evacuated the convent with precious little time to spare, the Slytherin family had a hand. They had succeeded in floating most of the precious possessions of the convent down the river to safety. Of the four that sailed, three were later accounted for. The thane Slytherin spent a great portion of the next year tracking the raiding party north through the devastated kingdom. The book was recovered and remained in the custody of that family until this day. 

                Catching the abbess' look of complete gratification, Salazar smiled. 

                "Is the nun Verina at this convent?" he asked. 

                The abbess blinked. "What do you want with sister Verina?" she asked not unkindly. 

                "She is the daughter of a neighboring estate. I merely inquire after her health," he replied. 

                "Yes, of course," the abbess said with a smile. "She is in the priory, at prayer."

                Salazar nodded and left the old abbess with her returned treasure. 

                He saw only one lady as he entered the priory, unfastening his cloak and unbuckling his sword from his waist. He knew that it was not her. This lady was too tall. The Verina he remembered was childlike and fidgeted constantly, awkward and shy. 

                This woman was unmoving and at peace. 

                She heard his footfalls and noted their ceasing at the doorway. 

                He had nearly vacated the doorway to leave her in peace when she turned and recognized him. 

                He did not recognize this woman. 

                "You have returned," she said simply. 

                "Verina?" was all he could manage by way of a reply. 

                Stunned, he let the silence linger as he strove for more words. She did not assist, but let him languish in the awkward pause. 

                She continued to stare sternly, expectantly. 

                The lily and the young rose when they appear in the summer are surpassed by the beauty of this woman, he thought. 

                Her skin was whiter than the hawthorn flower. 

                In his travels he had remembered thinking that none could compete with the beauty of the love that awaited him at home. He had been mistaken in Helga. Her beauty, though decidedly attractive on the outside was hindered by her wavering heart. 

                He could not be sure of Verina. 

                He did not know her. She had been a girl when he left. The woman before him was breathtaking and he longed for her sweet voice to speak again. But he did not know her heart. 

                "I am quite surprised to see you. Indeed, Lord Slytherin, I did not expect to see you again," she said, getting up from her knees. 

                Her hair swept back from her face in her strict habit of white showed her noble forehead beautifully and drew attention to her clear blue eyes. She looked on him expectantly. 

                "You doubted I would return from the crusades?" he asked. 

                "No," she said instantly. "I never anticipated that you would think on me or ever pay a visit to this convent."

                "I had business with the abbess," he said. 

                "And my sister has no doubt informed you of my decision to take my vows? I stand for them in a month's time," she said. 

                He said nothing. 

                "I trust you have met her family?" she asked. 

                "I have. She is very happy. Why have you come here?" he asked. 

                "I could not live among her and her schemes," Verina answered simply. 

                "Pray, what does that mean?" he asked. 

                She paused to adjust her words. "I did not mean to sound cruel. I attended you mother's sick bed," she explained. "She was so distressed for the pain you would feel upon your homecoming. Her last thoughts were of you."

                "You left because my mother died?" 

                "No, my lord."

                "Please, Verina. We are friends still I hope. Please call me Salazar," he insisted. 

                "Very well. My sister is kind. She did not mean to distress your mother. Nor did she mean to hurt you. She did what she had to do to save the lands that were entrusted to her. I do not blame her. But I did not agree either. So I left."

                "These are hard times. I do not blame her either," Salazar said. 

                "By Christ, I am relieved to hear you admit it," she said with a smile. "Have you been from the east long?"

                "About a month. I heard you had come here and I wondered if there were any way that I could persuade you not to take your vows," Salazar replied. 

                She stood silent for a moment. "Whyever not?"

                His heart was pacing faster than it ever had before. He felt sure that it would drop out of his chest in an instant if she were to reject it. He realized now that he would accept the love of no other. To be without her would be a pain beyond endurance. 

                "Lovely one," he said, a fleeting feeling of failure as she blinked in shock at the address. "If it please you, if such joy might be mine that you would love me, there is nothing you might command that I would not do, whether foolish or wise."

                "Forget me," she said in a trembling voice. "My heart is for God. You are in love with my sister and I will not be your revenge for her scorn."

                She began to walk away. She turned her back on him with a look that expressed deep hurt and disappointment. 

                Her back turned to him, a hand on the door, about to leave him, Salazar knelt and let his heart speak the words that his reserve had heretofore guarded jealously within him. 

                "I will be your everlasting.

                I will be your sword and shield." His voice held a tremor that attested to his fear of her leaving. 

                She was too compassionate not to hear it. 

                She turned slowly and looked down at him where he knelt in the aisle of the priory. "What did you say?" she asked, breathless. 

                He swallowed and continued:

                "I will be your sword

                I will be your shield

                When the ocean starts to dry

                When the air is sick with smoke

                Just when the statues start to cry

                And fallen angels they lay broken

                I will be there

                I will be the smallest piece in everything

                And I would lose my life 

                Before I break this promise to you."

                She neared him cautiously, hands folded in front of her, guarded. "Was it on your travels that you have acquired the skills of a poet?"

                "Your beauty inspires the words that are locked fast in my heart." He stood and looked into her clear blue and unflinching eyes. "I mean every single pledge that I have made to you, Verina."

                "What am I supposed to say to that?" she asked, defeated. 

                "Say you want me to be all of those things."

                "I do," she said with a smile. 

                Helga watched the masons. 

                She loved watching the gods representing their crafts take form out of blocks of fine marble. The face of Hermes smiled up at her as the master mason chiseled his eyes and wide, intelligent brow. He was to be a ceiling boss in the entryway. Others would soon join him in his endless effort to hold the walls of learning in place for, what she hoped was, centuries to come. The patron of science and learning, Hermes and the other gods that had once been thought to bestow powers of the supernatural would inspire the learning of thousands. It was a thought that left her giddy with anticipation. 

                The divinity _par excellence _of the craft of witches, Persephone and the great ancient goddess Hecate were finished and waiting for their moment to be placed. 

                But Helga longed most of all to see the master craftsman's depiction of the moon goddess Selene and Apollo, god of the Delphic Oracle and master over the arts of divination. 

                She thought how glorious the school would one day be. One day soon. 

                Thanks to Godric's skills with the building materials the job would be done in a quarter of the time that the greatest cathedrals took. But still she was impatient for progress. Even through magical processes, this school could not be built fast enough for her. 

                Under Hermes, the sculptor was etching the words _ta physika_, science. 

                Each piece would represent an element of learning in this institution. She marveled at the craftsman and the life he gave to the piece. 

                Persephone lay completed with the inscription _vis naturae medicatrix, _the healing power of nature. Hecate bore the creed _gnosis, knowledge. Selene, once in her form, would proclaim _artes mathematicae, _astrology, and Apollo _agathodaimon,_ or guardian angel. These, to Helga, caught the spirit of their vision. Like Christ who was imbued with talents of healing of the Father in heaven, they would use the gifts that they had been giving to increase mankind. And, like Christ, they would do this not to promote themselves, but to give to mankind the benefits of their qualities as healers, wizards and witches. _

                She was lost in thought on this when Rowena approached her very much distressed. 

                "Where have you come from?" Helga asked, startled. 

                Rowena produced a letter. "I have been praying for the failing father of our friend. Read this, Godric wished to warn you before their return."

                Helga took the letter with concern and eyed her friend confusedly. 

                Rowena pointed to the parchment and urged her to look at it. 

                She read and at the end paled. 

                The last line was to tell them of Salazar who had been married in the priory on the grounds of the Gryffindor estate. 

                "Married to whom?" Helga said, looking up from the parchment with a vacant stare. "I knew this day would come. But I am taken by surprise at his urgency."

                Rowena answered smartly, "He has been gone for quite a while. He has no family left and he has lands to think about. He needs an heir to pass them on to, does he not? And part ownership in this school."

                Helga nodded distractedly and folded the paper.

                Taking her friend's hand, Rowena kissed her cheek warmly and smiled. "I am off tonight. Give my condolences to Godric upon his return and to Salazar my happiest congratulations. I must meet the Cistercians on my island to see if we can strike a compromise. You will write to me about the foundation ceremony and the dedication?"

                Helga smiled, still distracted. "We would not forget you for anything."

                "And when I return," Rowena grinned happily. "You shall meet my boys."

                "I look forward to that day. And I shall have another for you to meet as well," Helga answered. 

                Rowena squeezed her hand and let it go. "Take care of yourself, friend."

                Godric, shocked at the news he had received upon his homecoming, allowed Rose to lead him to the chamber where she had been attending the deathbed of his father. 

                The old man had seen her first and reached out for her. 

                "Uncle," she said. "Take care you save your strength. Look who has come home."

                It was hard to tell what the old man's reaction had been. His eyes were nearly lifeless, his faculties of speech having deserted him sometime ago. 

                Godric stepped into the room partially and stared at his diminishing father. 

                _"No son of mine will desert his station for some silly quest. Any son of mine would have more sense." Those were the last words his father had spoken to him before he had ridden off to join Salazar and a hundred other young knights with a religious zeal. He had deserted his family in favor of a land that he foolishly thought God would give over to them as conquering heroes. _

                He realized now that there was more at stake than heroism. 

                His father would die and the last words they had spoken were spoken in anger. 

                Rose came to him and placed a hand on his arm. 

                "Speak to him. He can still hear you," she instructed. 

                "He does not want to hear me."

                Old Godefroi choked and became so distressed that Rose left Godric to return to his side, holding him up from his pillow so that he could more easily breathe. 

                He extended a hand to his son. 

                Surprised, Godric moved tentatively forward and took the skeleton-like hand offered him. He knelt at Rose's feet and leaned close to his father in her arms. "I am sorry that I was not what you wanted me to be."

                More distressed and attempting to fight for words, Godefroi touched his son's cheek and shook his head slowly, feebly. Then the hand fell away and the old man was finally at long last in peace. 

                He looked to Rose, still clutching to his father's hand. She was crying as she held him to her. He had been more of a father to her than her own had been. He had been more her father than his. He ached for her loss. And somewhere deeper he ached for his own lost father. 

                He was buried on a misty morning high on the hill that overlooked the shore. His father had remarked the day that they had buried his mother that it would be the ideal place for rest. "Do not worry, my son," he had said to Godric that day. Godric had been a small boy when his mother died but he could remember it with clarity. "She will not want for anything here. She has the oak for company and can watch the ships come and go in peace. She is happy here."

                His father had longed to join his wife. 

                Now they lay under their oak together and watch the ships pass out of sight and to the end of the earth. 

                Turning to Rose who was weeping silently at his side he heard her say, "We have all waited so long for you to return."

                "It was selfish of me to go," he admitted. "I should not have left you here to care for him on your own. It must have been difficult."

                "There is no difficulty in caring for those you love," she answered. "It was only so when I had thought you would never appear."

                "You knew I would come back for you, Rose."

                She nodded. "I knew. I think I always knew."

                They turned to walk down from the hill and saw an approaching rider. It was Salazar, Godric announced, eager to introduce his faithful friend to his Rose. They went down to meet him presently. 

                The year of Our Lord 1282 was a blessed year, for it saw the founding of the dream of four visionaries in the village above the town of Greenhill. 

                Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was to be dedicated that spring and to give its blessing the Bishop of Canterbury would make the long and perilous trip north in the middle of a war between the Kingdom of England and Wales and the nation of bickering clans, Scotland.

                Also during this occasion much bleaker events colored this joyous one with troubling clouds and omens of the blackest kind. 

                The Jews, long-suffering at the hand of the king, Edward I, saw a worsening of their state. An edict was passed stating that all Jews wear what was known as a _tabula, _a sign that proclaimed a Jew for all to separate and discriminate plainly against. Colored bright yellow and considerably larger than the symbol had been in the earlier years of the reign, this _tabula_ kept Jews from trading in the open markets and forbade them from practicing their chief trade in money-lending and setting them apart as the sole contributors to an exorbitant tax for the king's wars in France. It was seen by most God-fearing subjects as a triumph over the infidel by a king that had harbored a long-standing hatred for their kind. 

                To worsen the case of these Jews, a child's body had been found that winter in the church yard of St. Benet's. Some of those concerned made the preposterous claim that a Hebrew inscription had been cut into the flesh of the murdered child. Absurd as this may seem, the canons of St. Paul's Cathedral chose to believe this claim. The corpse of the little boy was buried in a place of honor beside the altar as a martyr. 

                This was exactly what the king had been waiting for. The Jews, in his mind, must be guilty and so he fined them even more; a great levy (the largest ever taken before: twelve times the annual rate—sixty thousand marks or forty thousand pounds). The once flourishing Jewish community was now in 1282 nearly broken. 

                It was then, the day before the dedication ceremony of the new school that Joshua approached Helga and asked for a conference with her. She suggested that he wait and let her fetch the other co-founders so that he may meet with them all, assuming that this was an entirely financial matter to do with the school. 

                He declined immediately and said that this was in reference to his daughter's schooling alone. 

                She kindly permitted him to come in. No matter the preposterous claims against his people, Helga would always hold a warm spot in her heart for the man that had made their school a reality. 

                "I hope you have been well," Helga said, cradling her newest child sleeping in her arms. She noticed the tabula he wore and thought on it with disgust. It was a brand, a mark to set them apart as different. She wondered who would bear the mark next, perhaps Scots like her. 

                Joshua nodded distractedly, though he did not look well. It had been twelve years since he had come to her and Rowena with his daughter Rebecca and she had been surprised by his altered state. He no longer smiled, but looked sadly and pensively at her child. He said slowly, "I pray that times will change so that he may know a better kingdom than the one that rules us now."

                Helga merely nodded and smiled. 

                "What is his name?" Joshua asked. 

                "Mungo," Helga answered. "He has a two brothers and a sister around here somewhere."

                "Children are a blessing," Joshua said with a falling expression. "This one is marked as special."

                "Do you think so?" Helga said intrigued. "I had a dream a night or two before he was born. A voice told me that he would have the gift of healing with his touch."

                "He will grow to be a holy man," Joshua said. He smiled genuinely at the child. 

                Helga would remember this scene with Joshua and the enchanted look upon his face when he beheld Mungo for the rest of her days. 

                "How is your child?" she asked. 

                "She is the reason I have come to speak to you."

                "I had thought that you would have come about the money you lent us to build the school. I will pay you twice the interest you originally asked for."

                Joshua looked shocked but not offended. "No. I am a man of my word. Though I am nearly ruined now, I would not ask for more than we first agreed upon. Times are not so bad as all that…just yet anyway. I can still provide for my family. But I wanted your word that my daughter still has a place at your school when it is dedicated."

                "Of course she does. Whyever not?"

                "Many people are closing their doors to us," he pointed to his badge as he said this. "We can no longer trade openly. We are forced to live disgraced. I would not have that for my daughter."

                "You and your family are always welcome here, Joshua. And Rebecca still has a place in our school if she will still have it."

                "I thank you," Joshua said bowing his gratitude and with one last look at the sleeping child he left with more confidence than when he had arrived. 

                Helga watched him go with a sinking heart and wondered how much further he would have to be oppressed before it would finally break his spirit, the spirit of his people.

                She caught the dark look of Salazar as he entered the hall of her manor and glared at her. 

                "Was that the Jew Joshua that I saw leaving?"

                "That was my friend Joshua whom you saw leaving," she said coldly. Their friendship had been reduced to chill civility upon his return with her sister as his wife. 

                Helga had taken this action as a personal affront and would not hear Verina when she insisted that she had married for love and not for spite of her. The argument had ended in unpleasant words, Verina stating that Helga had been angry at her own decision and not at Verina's. They had not spoken since. Ten years had passed with silence between them. Verina had had two children by Salazar; a boy named Eomer that was near Aaron's age (her first child) and a girl that was nearer the age of Mungo. Her name was Eowyn and she made her father proud. He had said often that she was beautiful like her mother. He had a particular way of saying it that wounded Helga severely. 

                "He means to enroll his daughter in our school," she continued. 

                Salazar took a deep calming breath. "I cannot caution you more strongly against this, Helga. It is dangerous to admit Jews into the school. I mean to say that associating with them will bring unwanted attention to our school. What if we are one day denounced as heretics? Our position with the church is precarious. It stands on the edge of a knife. One move in the wrong direction could be the end of us all."

                He had raised his voice to such a pitch that the baby stirred and began to cry. 

                She gave him a withering look and exited the hall. 

                Rowena was on the road from York to Greenhill. 

                She was eager to see the school completed but other issues weighed heavier on her mind and competed for attention. 

                She had been to see the order of Cistercians on her land. Her husband, a high-ranking noble among those that served one of the kings of Eire, was pressing his rights to her lands and had frightened the abbot of the monastery that she had so faithfully contributed to. She had no more faith with those monks and could feel her husband's sway over them. 

                She was returned the cross gilt in gold and precious jewels that her grandfather had donated to them so many years ago and the abbot kindly refused any more patronage from her or her family in the future. She felt that it was pointless to ask anything further from the once loyal monks and so left the school out of their brief conversation altogether. 

                Never should she have left for Scotland when Helga's letter had reached her saying that Godric and Salazar had returned from the crusades. She should have stayed here and watched over her lands and never given her husband the opportunity to get a foothold in. But for her friends she would do anything. And now it seems she was part of a school that she could not contribute to in the smallest way. Her monks refused to staff it as she had hoped and her lands were threatened. 

                "Mother," her oldest son Theoderic said, pulling her out of her hopeless thoughts. 

                "Yes, my love," she said, brushing the golden brown hair out of her younger son's face as he slept with his head upon her lap. 

                "Is Scotland much like our island?" Theoderic asked. He was fourteen and full of questions. 

                "Why dear?" Rowena asked sadly. "Do you miss home already?"

                Theoderic hesitated and then said finally, "Will we live here now because father doesn't want us?"

                Rowena could not answer this. She smiled at him and said, "We will live here for the time being. I have an obligation to my friends and I need your help for I am supposed to teach the art of reading the stars. Do you remember how I taught you?"

                "Yes, mother," he said, looking out over the rocky terrain sadly. 

                Galahad remained asleep in her lap. 

                She reached a hand up to touch Theoderic's cheek and he moved away from her. 

                Saying nothing, she let the moment pass blaming herself for his unhappiness, for all of their unhappiness. 

                She arrived in Greenhill and came straight away to Helga's estate where she met a nearly grown Hugo and the astonishingly beautiful girl Azria, both with their father's red hair. Among Helga's two step children of her husband's previous marriage, Helga had had two sons of her own. They, of course, also possessed Sir Guy's red hair, a boy her youngest son's age, Aaron and one that was about a year old, Mungo. 

                At dinner that night over the lines of _Lanval_ read by one of the monks of the nearby monastery, she met Salazar's family, Verina (whom she knew previously) and their two children Eomer and his younger sister Eowyn. She could tell that they both made him very happy. She secretly blessed his good fortune though it gave Helga pain and she hoped all of the best for him in the future. 

                Godric had also married. But she was the object of his childhood obsession and Rowena was not surprised in the least by their match. Rose and Godric had been blessed with a son of about Eomer and Aaron's age, Isaiah and a new baby girl named Isaidore. 

                She smiled and blessed them all and secretly wished that she had been blessed with a successful marriage, but said nothing of this. None of them new of her misfortunes, save Helga and she knew very little. 

                It was with great pains though that she informed them simply that the Cistercians that she had placed so much hope in would not support their school here. 

                Salazar frowned and stared at her for the longest time before Helga directed his scrutinizing gaze at herself with a comment about Joshua's visit to her that morning.

                Their esteemed guest, the bishop stared as well. So did his vast entourage.  

                Godric shrugged and answered simply, "The Dominicans would do just as well, though I am sorry for you. You had your heart set on those monks."

                She nodded and retired early to bed, lodged in a room in Helga's spacious manor. Theoderic, though graciously enough spoke to his hostess in polite yet short answers, would not say a word to her and pretended to be asleep when she went in to check on him. 

                She lay staring up at the ceiling and held Galahad closely to her. He was still her little angel and she had hoped that he always would be. 

                "Mother?" he asked startling her. 

                "What, my lamb?" she asked in a whisper. 

                "Why do you stare at the ceiling?" he asked whispering as well. 

                She smiled to herself. "Because I cannot see the stars," she answered. 

                He expelled an audible breath and said, "There should be stars painting the ceiling at night."

                She thought on this all night. He had given her the idea of a great contribution to the school and its dedication tomorrow. 

                He saw the angry glances that Salazar and Helga periodically shot at each other. Rose beside him said, "He does not agree with her inviting Joshua."

                "He is worried about the message that it will send to the bishop, whose blessing is the foundation that our school stands on. But Joshua's child deserves to attend just as much as anyone."

                The child that they spoke of, Rebecca, was not even really a child but a stunning young woman of middle height, an intelligent face and a calm personage. She stood proudly next to her father and both tried to ignore several glances that were marking them and the tabulas that both wore plainly on their cloaks. 

                "Does he possess the same sort of animosity for those who do not practice magic at all?" Rose whispered as the bishop took his spot behind an altar placed in front of the steps of the school. 

                Godric smiled at Rose. 

                He knew that, though his friend marked a difference between those who practiced and those who did not possess the ability of magic, Rose was beloved by everyone just the same. And on top of all, Salazar was his very best friend and surely respected Rose on that aspect alone. 

                The Bishop of Canterbury, the very voice of the church's seat in England, stood and solemnly read from the Testament of Solomon. 

                The masses that had come for this historic occasion were silent as he spoke. 

                "God gave me true knowledge of things, as they are: an understanding of the structure of the world and the way in which elements work, the beginning and the end of eras and what lies in between, the cycles of the years and the constellations, the thoughts of men, the powers of the spirits, the virtues of roots, I learned it all, secret or manifest." The bishop looked out over the crowd and smiled at the four founders of this one of a kind school. "Like Solomon, God shares the knowledge of these things with his faithful. And so let it be that this day in the year of Our Lord twelve-hundred and eighty-two that the school for the arts of witchcraft and wizardry be opened for learning here in Greenhill in the territory of Scotland."

                There was much cheering that only ceased in sheer amazement as Rowena did something truly remarkable in turning the ceiling of the Great Hall into a vast mirror reflecting the changing moods of the heavens onto the stunned onlookers below. It would stand this way forever. 

                And so marked the founding of a school for the arts of witchcraft and wizardry. 

                __

* The highly eloquent speech that Salazar made to Verina is sadly not my own genius but (oddly enough) comes from a Sister Hazel song called '_Sword and Shield'_. I know, it sounds like a ballad, huh? 


	4. A Dream

Disclaimer: The four Founders and their school belong to JK Rowling and various associated companies. The rest of the characters and plot belong to me and general history (see bibliography at the end of the story). I do not own Robert the Bruce, William Wallace or King Edward I (If I had, things would have turned out quite differently). 

Chapter Three

A Dream

_"Listen! I will describe the best of dreams which I dreamed in the middle of the night_

_When, far and wide, all men slept…"_

_'The Dream Of The Rood'_

More and more she was plagued with incomprehensible dreams. 

                Helga was possessed of a gift that she did not herself understand. Her dreams foretold of the future. Yet, when she tried to remember them in her wakened hours, they were nothing more than quickly vanishing smoke whose color and texture she could remember, but whose substance always seemed to be beyond her. 

                Tonight she dreamt in the colors red and black.

                Of bloodshed and misery. 

                She dreamt of oppression and of banishment. She dreamt of a great divide. 

                Awaking immediately, Helga forgot everything her dream had just told her. In the moonlight of the high-arched window she could see that her husband had not stirred from her waking. 

                She quietly left the bed chamber to check on her children.

                In the eight years since the Bishop of Canterbury had blessed the school, there had been a great success in the teaching of their arts. 

                Mungo, at age nine and a half, had shown an amazing proficiency in the arts of healing. Like Joshua had predicted, he had a gift with his touch.

                Aaron, eighteen and a dominator at the tournaments, was now teaching the subtler arts of 

Herbology in Helga's place. 

                Azria was ever at Helga's right hand, assisting in the teaching of her students in healing, already having mastered the art in her nineteenth year. 

                Her oldest, Hugo was overseeing the staffing of the school. He had taken an interest in the affairs of the church and heeded the advice of the Dominicans on every issue. Helga had been surprised when just two days earlier, Hugo approached her with a scheme he had fixed up with the Abbot Anselm of the monastery on their lands. 

                He would be leaving soon for London to set up representation for the magical community and for the school in particular, a Magesterium that would prove strategic in the court of the king who was less than sympathetic to their cause. Their only ally (and yet a very important one) the Bishop of Canterbury supported the idea that Hugo presented and he would leave with the blessing of the church. 

                She was not worried for him, though she had heard that the court of the king, known by some as Edward the Longshanks, was a cutthroat one. 

                No. She worried more for Azria and saw her daily growing more fond of Salazar's only son and inheritor of his estates, Eomer. Helga had not been able to forgive her sister for making Salazar happier than she could have hoped to. Salazar seemed to support Helga's wariness. He seemed as unhappy about the prospects of a match between the two families as she was. 

                She moved slowly and silently through the hall and, seeing a light on in Azria's room, she knocked and entered. 

                "What has you up so late, child?" Helga asked, setting her candle down and moving to the window where Azria sat, looking out. 

                "I should have learned from Rowena how to read the stars," Azria said. 

                "What would you like the stars to tell you?"

                Azria thought for a moment but did not answer. Turning to her stepmother she said, "I do not want Hugo to go to London."

                "He is quite capable of minding himself. He goes in the name of the school." Helga had come up with a solution in that very moment that would ease her apprehension as concerned her stepdaughter and the heir of Slytherin. "Why do you not accompany him to London? You have never been there yourself. And if you worry for him so, it would put your mind at ease to look after him."

                Azria considered this for a moment. "I could travel to London with him and see that he is properly installed there. Once I am satisfied that everything will be well with him, I could come back."

                "Why would you want to come back?" Helga asked. 

                "I cannot leave you here to apprentice all of these students by yourself," Azria said. 

                "Child, I can very well manage on my own. Besides, I have Aaron and Mungo to help me," Helga argued. 

                "Do you think I should go? Do you think it the wise thing to do?" she asked uncertainly. 

                "I think it the wisest thing to follow your own heart, child. If it would ease your fear to look after your brother in London, you should do so."

                "Do you think Hugo would want me along?" Azria asked doubtfully. 

                "Of course he does. You would bring him comfort in a strange land."

                "Very well, mother," Azria said with an unsure smile. "I will go to London with Hugo."

                "I am pleased to hear it so. I see that you have been sad as of late. It will do you good to get away from home and so much work as I have put upon you."

                "Oh, nonsense, mother!" Azria said. "I enjoy teaching here."

                "Then it is something else that bothers you?"

                Azria fell silent and a moment later expressed her weariness and retired.

                Helga left in a mixture of relief and despair. Her daughter was unhappy and she had yet to discover why. 

                  Galahad sat beside Rowena on the high tower that was built specifically to observe the stars. It was a clear night and the moon was only full by half. It was a perfect night for watching the stars. 

                She sat taking notes on what she observed, stealing glances at her son every now and then, proud to have fostered such an interest of the heavens in him. There was none that made her heart happier than her two sons. She even found herself on occasion, forgetting her loneliness and longing for home when she was around them. Here was a better place to raise them in any case, she reasoned. And her lands were safe in Eire under a steward that she trusted. 

                She noted a conjunction between Saturn and Jupiter that worried her. She would have to check her notes in her laboratory downstairs, but if her memory served her right, this portended death and disaster. 

                She was distracted in the next moment by the voice of her son and she thought on it no longer. 

                "Why do you wear that around your neck," Galahad asked pointing to the fleur-de-lis that hung above her heart. He narrowed his eyes. "Did father give you that? Why do you still wear it?"

                He was sixteen and full of resentment for his father who had abandoned them. 

                "No." Rowena smiled sadly and answered, "This was given me by Salazar. He brought it back from his travels because we are friends." She held the small silver and sapphire pendant up to the moonlight and continued, "It is a fleur-de-lis, flower of the lily. It is used in France to represent royalty, it signifies perfection and light and life to them." She stopped a moment looking down at her notes to hide a slight blush that came to her cheeks. "Legend has it that Clovis, a Merovingian king of the Franks, was presented with a golden lily as a symbol of his purification upon his conversion to Christianity by an angel of God."

                Galahad said no more and looked up at the sky again, satisfied in her answer. After a moment of silence between them he turned to her again and said, "One day I will command an army and I will stop father from challenging your lands."

                She smiled at him and shook her head. "You make me happy enough to forget your father, you and Theoderic. I would not want you to fight him. Take all the lands he may, but not my sons." She drew him to her and kissed his forehead. Soon he would be taller than her and would be beyond her influence. She was worried by the hate he harbored for his father and prayed that he would not escalate it into conflict. 

                Rebecca's father had died three years ago. 

                Of those that attended his small funeral, Helga and Rowena had been touched by her situation and had offered to keep her on beyond her education to help out around the school. She was among a small population of Jewish students and then the only Jew among a staff of monks that avoided her. 

                She had friends among the founders and their children, save the Lord Salazar Slytherin and his daughter Eowyn. 

                Hugo had become her particular friend and often came down to the kitchens where she spent most of her time an discussed theology with her. It was a fond subject of her father's and she found that she missed him less when she was in Hugo's company. Their favorite topic was the exodus and they could debate for long hours on the subject of Christ. He was always understanding and never dominated her ideas. Gratefully, he had often intervened on her behalf when Salazar had attempted to eject her from her position at the school. 

                But in recent months the situation of the Jews had considerably worsened. 

                Incensed by the king's treatment of the Jews, Hugo had voiced his ideas to her about taking their case and that of the wizarding populations of the kingdom up in court. 

                She had vehemently urged against this as she feared that it would bring unnecessary attention upon his family and the school, for something as little as her. 

                It was the only time he had ever refused to listen to her. 

                He was adamant about action. 

                And she regretted the fact that she was his main motivation. 

                For Edward I, king of England, the years following 1289 were times of gathering darkness. His plans for the union of Scotland into his kingdom had failed with the death of the Maid of Norway and, though he remained the nominal overlord of that territory, his hopes of a peaceful union were dashed. 

                Worse still, his own life had taken a painful turn when his wife, the queen Eleanor of Castile had died unexpectedly. Grief-stricken, Edward accompanied her funeral bier from Lincoln to London. At each stop that the mourning party had taken rest, he had a fine stone cross erected there in her memory. The last cross along the journey had been the Charing Cross at London. 

                In this dark period for the kingdom of England and the disputed territory of Scotland the king forbade all Jewish activities and closed the chirograph chests in which the Jewish records were kept. This resulted in the liquidation of all Jewish affairs. 

                Hugo was outraged by the injustice of it all. 

                He saw her the morning of his departure where she made her last and unsuccessful plea for him to stay. He was deaf to it all. 

                Brushing her dark hair out of her face, cheeks flushed with the heat of the fires in the kitchen, she looked up in surprise to see Hugo standing there. His face was painted with seriousness. 

                "Hugo?" she asked distractedly. "You are not leaving today, are you?" 

                "The position of the Jews has become serious. The position of magic as concerns our religion will be the next to take a fall. I must not tarry longer. I came to say goodbye."

                "No, Hugo." She followed him into the hall where he was distractedly pulling on his gloves. "Please do not do this. You are just one person."

                "And so is Edward. See how much difference one person can make, whether for good or for grave?" Hugo argued. 

                "I do not think it is safe. Let the problem work itself out and stay here. They have not your same cares at heart in London. I worry for your safety," Rebecca continued. 

                He smiled and kissed her forehead. "Dear Rebecca," he said, "I cannot simply do nothing while we are all threatened."

                She meant to say more but stopped as she saw Salazar Slytherin pass in the hall and linger with some interest on the pair. 

                "I will be back at Christmas. Take care, my friend," he said finally. 

                "And you, my friend," she said sadly as he left. 

                Salazar approached her with a dark expression. "See the trouble your race has caused for us all?"

                "I have done nothing," Rebecca defended herself, becoming uneasy in his company. 

                "By garnering the sympathy of the Ladies Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff in letting you stay on here, you have endangered this school. The king does not share in the church's position of our institution here. He could easily take action against us and has better motivation for doing so as three of our founders have expressed sympathy in the cause of the Jews."

                "My staying here will not harm this school. I am only one person," Rebacca said, backing up as he slowly approached her. 

                "Yes, you are only one little infidel. But your very presence is a danger to this school. I am the only one who sees it. The others are blind. But mark my words, you will be the downfall of us."

                "Father!" Eomer's voice was heard over the shoulder of Salazar. 

                There was enough of a distraction for Rebecca to get away. She retreated to the kitchens again with a heavy heart. Hugo had left to argue the case of her people and she would be the downfall of everything here. 

                In the hall Salazar watched her go with intense loathing and turned to his son. 

                "I go to the Abbot Anselm today to give my life over to the order," the unhappy Eomer said. 

                Salazar did not know how to reply. He was shocked to begin with. 

                "You cannot become a monk, son," he explained patiently. "You are to inherit my lands. I need you here."

                "Give the lands to Eowyn. I want none of them."

                "I will speak to the Abbot and forbid him from taking you in," Salazar said hotly. 

                "Then I will away to another monastery," Eomer argued. 

                "Why do you insist on this?" his father asked becoming angry. 

                "Azria has left with her brother for London. I will never see her again. You and her mother have plotted against us and driven a wedge between us forever. She will not love me because her mother forbids it."

                "I forbid it as well. She will do nothing but break your heart, son. Believe me when I say I do this for your benefit. Her heart is as inconstant as her mother's and she will forget you soon."

                "Then I commit myself to God and the solitary life of the monastery, without your blessing."

                "I will not allow this!" Salazar raged. 

                "Then I will leave and join a different order if you will keep me from this one," Eomer argued. 

                Salazar took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It pained him to concede, but he did for his son's sake. "I would not have you so far from home. I will allow you to join the monastery on these lands. But I do not give my blessing."

                Eomer bowed with a solemn frown and left his father. 

                Mungo was with his mother that morning. He had seen his brother and sister off sadly and wished that he too could go to London. 

                To cheer him up, Abbot Anselm and Eomer had taken him to the monastery and let him ring the morning service. Eomer was happy to see that the boy's love for all things spiritual had harbored a devotion to the order and entertained his hopes that he would one day become a monk among the Dominicans as well. 

                It gave Eomer comfort to have Mungo ever with him. In some small way the boy reminded him of Azria and he missed her less when reading aloud to Mungo his favorite poem _The Dream of the Rood_. 

                It was a poem that his sister had often read to him before seeing him off to bed. They both missed Azria. Missing her together made it all the more bearable. 

                Weeks and months passed in this manner. 

                Eomer had replaced Azria and Hugo in their absence as Mungo's older brother and he grew day by day more impatient to become a monk like Eomer. 

                His father's animosity toward the Hufflepuffs did more for driving a wedge between him and his son. Eomer came to resent his father's attitude concerning the Jews and, though he loved the school that the four had founded together nearly twenty years ago now, he thought that his father's concern for it compromised his capacities toward compassion and understanding of the Jews and increasingly toward those that did not possess magical abilities. 

                By the river this morning Eomer entertained Mungo by reading to him from _The Dream of the Rood while Mungo intermittently asked questions of the monastic life and threw bread at the ducks on the water's edge. _

                _"It seemed that I saw a wondrous tree_

_                soaring into the air, surrounded by light,_

_                the brightest of crosses; that emblem was entirely_

_                cased in gold; beautiful jewels_

_                were strewn around its foot, just as five studded the crossbeam. All the angels of God, _

_                fair creations guarded it. That was no cross of a criminal, but holy spirits and men on earth_

_                watched over it there—the whole glorious universe."_

"Eomer," Mungo asked, slapping a stick on the wet packed earth of the river's edge.

                Eomer looked up from his reading and answered, "Yes, Mungo?"

                Mungo was silent, adjusting his thoughts and finally said, "Is it a sin to practice our arts?"

                Eomer blinked and stared at Mungo. "Who told you that it was?"

                "An old woman in the village," Mungo answered. 

                "If she thinks so than she must think that Jesus himself had sinned. For he healed blind and lame men for the glory of God. Do you think that Jesus was a sinner?"

                Mungo thought about this and said, "No. Scripture said he was a man without a blemish. He was blameless."

                "Then you have your answer," Eomer said returning to his poem. 

                _" _Wondrous was the tree of victory, and I was stained__

_                by sin, stricken by guilt. I saw this glorious tree_

_                joyfully gleaming, adorned with garments,_

_                decked in gold; The tree of the Ruler _

_                was rightly adorned with rich stones;_

_                yet through that gold I could see the agony_

_                once suffered by wretches, for it had bled_

_                down the right hand side. Then I was afflicted,_

_                frightened at this sight; I saw that sign often change _

_                its clothing and hue, at times dewy with moisture,_

_                stained by flowing blood, at times adorned with treasure. _

_                Yet I lay there for a long while _

_                and gazed sadly at the Savior's cross,"_

"Eomer," Mungo interrupted again. 

                "Yes, Mungo?" Eomer said with a smile, amused at the boy's persistence. 

                "Are the Jews wrong because they do not believe that Christ died for us?"

                Eomer thought about how best to answer this difficult question. "They have a set of beliefs that are not our own. There are people who do not believe in magic. Do you think that makes you wrong, believing that magic does exist?"

                Mungo shrugged. "How do they know that it does not?"

                "How do we know that Jesus is not the Savior of sinners?" Eomer asked.

                "Because we believe he is," Mungo answered. 

                "Can we prove this?" Eomer asked. 

                "No," Mungo answered. "We believe he is the Redeemer because of faith."

                "Jews have faith in something else. Is having faith wrong?"

                Mungo thought about this for a while longer. He watched across the river as an armed messenger came up to the school where Rebecca stood talking with Godric and his son Isaiah. In the red and white striped cloak and the seal of the King of England, Edward I on his chest, the messenger held a rolled piece of parchment out to the girl as Isaiah stepped up on one side over her and read it with her. 

                Godric engaged the messenger in brief conversation then the red and white clad messenger bowed and left. 

                Eomer stood and with Mungo, made for the bridge and then the opposite bank where Rebecca stood with the Lords of Gryffindor. 

                The summer parliament of 1290 was decisive in England's history, and consequently for the school in Scotland and its founders. The reforming legalist king had never been more active in his reign: creating order out of the chaotic feudal administration of his father Henry III, and looking for ways to raise revenue from his increasingly wealthy kingdom ; the settlement with Scotland was discussed and substantial subsidies were granted by the church from its vast possessions. 

                He also issued some of his most famous laws. One of these laws was the great _Quo Warranto by which he attempted to regulate, if not completely cut back, the undisciplined power of some over zealous feudal magnates. _

                And, even with the efforts of Hugo's new Magesterium (representative Ministry for Magic of the age), the position of the Jews worsened. His support of them also earned him the censure of the Bishop at Canterbury and he threatened to pull support from the School of Witchraft and Wizardry in Scotland. Now, as it was, there was hardly any outside support for the school. And it was closely associated with sympathy for the Jewish population. 

                A milestone in the history of this turbulent island was carried to pass when on July the eighteenth in the year of Our Lord 1290, the king decided one further matter of great import: his Council at Westminster expelled the Jews from his kingdom and the territory of Scotland. 

                All Jews in the land had until the passing of the year 1290 to vacate the kingdom. 

                And so, with great sadness and shame, Rebecca came away from the school in Scotland that had been her home for the better part of her life. Isaiah Gryffindor had offered himself as her escort at far as Christchurch, for she would not accept his services further. Rowena had found a family in the south of France, a family connection, that would take her in there. 

                She stopped first off in London to say goodbye to her greatest friend and ally, Hugo.

                "I am sorry I could do no more for you," he said sadly, standing on the bridge over the vast river where he was to look on his friend for the last time. 

                "You have sacrificed much needlessly for me and my people. You can do no more. I accept your friendship, but cannot bear to leave you with your guilty feelings."

                Rebecca reached up to her cloak and ripped the tabula off of it. 

                "Do not do that!" Hugo said, looking to his right and left. He was anxious for her to linger no longer here. London was no safe place for Jews in the least. Removing one's tabula was tantamount to death for a Jew. 

                She gave it to him. "Now I am free," she said smiling. 

                He kept that scrap of yellow material with him always. 

                She left with Isaiah and Hugo saw her no more. 

                Salazar had mixed feelings over the expulsion of the Jews from the kingdom. 

                In a way it was a blessing. The church would no longer fault them, the magical people, with alliances to that race. 

                But also, the Jews had been the traditional scapegoats in a time when superstitious views still ran high. Now, he feared, there would be no one to blame for increased warfare with France, disease, crop failure. The people of England would naturally turn to the magical community. 

                He felt that it would soon be necessary to entrench themselves here in Scotland. It would soon prove crucial to sever ties with those that judged them. There was already talk among the parliament and nobles in England about the heretics and their school across the borders in the disputed "pagan" Scotland. 

                He sat brooding over these matters when his daughter, Eowyn entered his laboratory. 

                "What troubles you, father?" she asked sweetly. 

                He was astonished at how much she now resembled her mother. Verina had always respected him and out of that respect grew a love that drown his feelings for Helga, seemingly until they had died. The two children that she gave him had increased his love for her. He could not imagine a better mother for them and was thankful that they both displayed her even temper, though Eowyn was more like him than her mother. 

                Eomer had more of the even temper of Verina, and the passionate will that had driven him to love Azria Hufflepuff and uncompromisingly commit himself to the life of a monk when she had forsaken that love. Azria was too much like her stepmother, Helga in that she made promises as easily as they suited her and then broke them in the same effortless way. This would be the way of it with the Hufflepuffs and the Slytherins he supposed. He and Helga had started a painful tradition of heartbreak.

                But Eowyn was different. 

                She respected her father and possessed his moral fiber and love of the school he had founded. He knew that it was with her that this school would remain. Come what may, the Slytherins would always have Hogwarts. 

                "The church is nearly finished with us. Our situation with them hangs upon the knife. With the Jews gone they will be looking to us now for blame. We are an incomprehensible breed to they that do not understand our magic," Salazar said in a bleak voice. 

                She handed him a glass of wine that she brought. "But I thought that it was the Jews we wanted to be rid of?" she asked confused as she sat beside him. 

                "I wanted the Jews out of the school, not gone from the island. I do not harbor hatred for them personally. I feared that they would bring the school unnecessary shame. They have and now they have left us in their impossible position of infamous scrutiny from the crown and now the church, thanks to that meddling Hugo. And Helga encourages him!"

                Eowyn sat silently and listened to her father's concerns as she often did, as her mother often had. 

                Verina had been upset by her son's leaving and rarely came out of her room. Eowyn had now taken her mother's place as her father's chief companion. 

                "Perhaps," Eowyn chanced. "It would be wise to speak to Helga, come to an agreement. Your discourse with her and her family will not make the running of the school any easier and it could prove more ruinous than good." Eowyn sipped her own wine and eyed her father waiting for his reply. 

                He seemed to ponder this for a moment and finally said, "You know child, you may be right. You clever girl. You have a head for compromise and negotiation."

                She kissed her father's cheek dutifully and retired to her mother's bedroom to attend her.

                Salazar went to a cabinet that he kept locked often. Inside was a gift from the Caliph when, many years ago now, he deciphered a dream for the ruler. It was an egg that sat dormant waiting for the correct conditions to hatch. He thought perhaps it would remain in this dormant state forever as he had no use for something of this nature. But he had obliged the Caliph and had accepted the gift graciously, for it is an insult to refuse a gift when offered. Next to the Caliph's gift was a chalice that he had picked up on his return from the east in Greece. 

                This chalice was old and had ancient markings on it in black stone set into bronze. He had meant to give it to Helga when he had returned. He kept it back when he learned of her hasty marriage to the knight Sir Guy Ottery. 

                He had given Rowena the necklace that he had brought back for her on his travels, but he had felt Helga undeserving in every way. 

                Maybe it was his own wounded pride that was hindering the development of this school and the old grudge against her would continue to fester and lead to the ruin of them all. He decided now that he was happy in marriage and the father of two adored children, he could forgive Helga for only doing what she thought was best. 

                He found her alone at her embroidery, bending low in concentration in the dim candlelight. Her hair was tied back away from her face but a few flaxen strands escaped and tickled her nose. She blew them hastily out of her face and continued laboriously at her work.           

 Her husband had left a fortnight ago and Rowena had since removed herself from the guest quarters of this house into more permanent ones at the school with her two sons, along with Godric and his family, who spent two seasons a year here and the other two at his home in the south. 

                "You should get more light before your eyesight goes," he said moving into the room.        

                Helga looked up, momentarily startled. "You frightened me," she said heaving a sigh and placing a hand over her heart.  

                "Did I?" Salazar asked. "I did not mean to. I brought you this," he said offering her the cup he had taken from Greece. "I have meddled with it," he said with a childish smile. Taking a phial containing some silvery substance he poured it into the chalice. 

                Curious, Helga leaned in and watched. Nothing happened. "That is rather unimpressive for a man of your abilities, Salazar," she said with a wry smile. 

                He returned the smile and said, "It is a sort of thought preserver. Even the troubles and images that you gave forgotten can be summoned and stored in here so that your mind can be free of the burden of too much thought." Sheepishly he continued, "I had meant for it to be a gift upon my return from the crusades, but I have been angry with you and have kept it out of spite."

                He bent to inspect her work. She had a fine hand for the art. This particular piece was of scarlet velvet which she wove gold string into. It was the Gryffindor coat of arms, the lion on a field of lilies.

                Helga blinked astonished and said, "I truly am sorry I hurt you. Thank you for the gift. It is magnificent and quite thoughtful. It shall have plenty of use as my mind has been more than troubled as of late."

                "Yes," Salazar said taking a seat next to her in the empty hall. "I am sorry about the girl Rebecca. But that is for the best."

                "Is it?" Helga asked unsure. "I cannot help but think that the worst is yet to come. My dreams are becoming bleaker and bleaker."

                Salazar sat up with concern. "Of what nature are these dreams?"

                "I cannot say for they are a mystery to me." She rested a hand on the chalice and said, "But this will be a great help. I cannot thank you enough."

                He smiled. "It was my daughter's idea, really. She thought it would be best if I came and settled my grudge against you."

                Helga stared for a while. In the dark he resembled the young man that she had first fallen in love with. "And I settle my grudge with you."

                "What is this for?" he asked, getting to his feet and leaning over her work. 

                "I am going to make a tapestry for the dormitories of the apprentices at the school." She pointed to the lion and said, "Does it not look like Godric's coat of arms?"

                "Yes," he said with a smile. "It is lovely. The students will be fond of them."

                There was a moment of silence when Helga leaned back to allow Salazar room to inspect her work. Without thinking she leaned forward with a beating heart and kissed him. 

                He was unsure how to react to this and for a moment he just froze, shocked. 

                Then he kissed her back, moving a hand across the smooth line of her jaw and cheek, entwining his fingers in her hair. He leaned in closer to her, resting his hand on the arm of her chair. Her hand moved to the nape of his neck pressing him to her. 

                Just as soon as it had happened, he pushed her away with the greatest feeling of guilt and betrayal. "I cannot do this," he said, looking terrified.

                Helga said nothing but she was astonished at his reaction. It had not been the first time he had kissed her. Her astonishment melted into regret and she asked quietly, "You really love her, do you not?"

                "Yes," he whispered guiltily, standing. He would not look at her. He was ashamed of betraying his own faithful and gracious wife. "I am sorry. I never should have done that."

                "No," Helga said firmly. "It was I who kissed you. You have nothing to be sorry about."

                He did not listen to this and was out of the hall before she had finished the sentence.

                She looked after him with regret. She had not regretted the kiss. She was tied to a loveless marriage. She only regretted the fact that his match to her sister had not been so. She had seen it in his eyes, in his very reaction to her. She had accused them of consorting to spite her. She would have been happier had this been the case. She was even more unhappy at the realization that they were truly in love with each other while she was without. 

                She returned sadly to her embroidery but could not see her stitching for the tears in her eyes. 

                Unaware that she had had an audience of her youngest son, Mungo, Helga retired to bed, blowing out the candle and leaving him, an eleven year old boy on the darkened stairs opposite the ones that she had climbed. He sat trying to sort out the scene for himself. 

                He had only come to the conclusion that the friendship of the founders of the school so sacred to all of them would crumble on the basis of the scene he had just witnessed. He went for a walk in the half moonlight to clear his troubled thoughts.

                Rowena sat most nights now alone on her tower observatory at the school. For some fortunate chance, tonight her attention was focused on the grounds below her instead of at the stars where they were normally fixed. It was a warm night for April, but she pulled her shawl around her arms as if a wind was biting into her.

                Galahad was still there, but had left off his nights of star gazing with his mother. He had turned to the normal pursuits of young men his age, the sports of jousting, tournament combat and hunting. Godric had been more of a father to him than the one God had given him. And he seemed to adore her son as his own. Indeed, Isaiah had become one of his best friends as their interests began to merge. 

                She was always worrying now that one would topple the other from his horse. Jousting really was a dangerous sport, one Galahad desperately wanted to prove himself in. 

                He was growing ever more to worship his older brother. 

                Her worries waned with his growing skill and she convinced herself that Galahad, grown now and not a boy any longer, would one day be a knight like his father, but purer of heart. 

                Thoederic was the one that really gave her cause for concern. Twenty-two and very capable in warfare he had joined in on some minor battles with the Scottish clans as they pressed the English Lords for their rights there. He, being Irish in origin, should not have been involved in her opinion. She pressed her will upon him and convinced him to return to his island and their lands and leave the turbulent political climate of Scotland to its nobles. 

                She did this out of concern for him, the school and Salazar's growing temper with him. On more than one occasion he had commented to her on her son's impetuous nature. Salazar, being an English noble himself, saw Theoderic's involvement as a direct threat to him and the safety of the school. "He could foster Edward's hatred for our school further with his involvement in this conflict that is not even his!" Salazar had raged. 

                Rowena had to agree with him. She was ever fearful of attracting the attention of the mob on their peaceful institution here in the shelter of the Hebrides. Her husband and the trouble that he could cause weighed heavily on her mind always. She had no wish for her son to further lead to the school's endangerment. 

                He had gone to Eire in a rage at his mother's request. Their relationship had been nothing but turbulent since his father had left him at the age of five. She felt that Theoderic had placed most of the blame for it on her shoulders. It was a heavy burden, but she bore it as best she could. It was in fact her fault. 

                Distracted from her thoughts by a movement below, Rowena directed her attention to the stand of trees near the wall of the school far below. A figure emerged there and placed something bundled near the wall. Rowena watched with growing interest and then alarm as the figure made to return to the wood but collapsed about a half a kilometer from its destination. 

                Rowena was fixed to the spot for a brief moment before she recalled herself and ran as quickly as she could down the narrow steps of the Astronomy Observatory  and out of the school to where the figure had collapsed. 

                Salazar did not return immediately to his own home across the bridge. He walked on the edge of the river, deep in thoughts—guilty thoughts. 

                Helga had shown him that she was willing to accept him and he could not deny that he wanted her. That kiss had been real. They had both felt it. 

                It tore at his heart to feel this way toward Helga when his own good and gentle wife had done nothing worth such betrayal. His mind was in a torrent of guilt and shame. 

                Verina. Good, sweet, kind, gentle Verina had given her love for God over to him the moment he had asked. When he had married her, she had asked him not to betray the love that she had stolen away for him. He had taken that request very seriously. And until now, only a grudge, put up as a wall, had kept him from Helga. It had been foolish to take that wall down now. 

                It would be harder to deny himself his first love when now she offered herself freely to him. 

                But Helga had been right. 

                She saw it. He loved Verina. Even Helga could see it through her blind affection for him. Maybe she would make it easier by keeping herself at a distance from him. 

                He could only hope. 

                Presently he saw Rowena run from the gates of the school across the river. She was in quite a state of urgency, rushing after something at the edge of the wood. He immediately turned that way. 

                He saw, only moments afterward, a boy crossing the bridge from Helga's manor. It was her son Mungo. He had apparently taken up late night walking on this temperate night as well. 

                He looked with troubled eyes on Salazar and walked with him silently to where Rowena knelt huddled over something, someone. 

                A hero had emerged among the nobility of Scotland in this age of dispute with England that incensed the young men of the land into a patriotic frenzy. A warrior hero born to a Renfrewshire knight had led the bitterly divided clans of Scotland to a victory over the troops of the English king in Sterling. William Wallace had taken the castle there in Sterling in 1297 after an embittered battle that had taken place over the bridge of that town. He had unwittingly inspired a people with the dream of a nation. 

                Among those that caught the fever of nationhood and the quest for Scottish independence was a contender for the crown by the name of Robert. He was the seventeenth Earl of Bruce and his family owned extensive lands in the village not far up the River Annan from Hogwarts school, Lochmaben. Becoming a faithful supporter of Wallace's campaign, Robert the Bruce had not been the only one whom Wallace's cry of freedom had reached. From war and conflict ages old, land holding elite and farmers, the sons of noblemen and peasants alike followed the hero who would tell England that Scotland's sons and daughters were under the control of the cruel Longshanks no more. 

                Theoderic had been one of the many that had heard the call to take up arms and answered. He had fought with Wallace at the bridge in Sterling and, for him, it felt like victory was near. But for him it was not a battle of nationhood. He was not like the others in that he fought for his homeland. It was not his home. But the school his mother loved was here and he felt the threat of Edward the Longshanks upon it day by day. It was his hope that the struggle of independence, once won, would favor the school much more than English control over it would. 

                And so he fought. 

                And in fighting he had displeased his mother for whom he was fighting. 

                She had begged him instead to return to his home in Eire and not to involve himself in Scotland's politics further. 

                Theoderic had returned to his lands in Eire that he had not seen since he had left when he was fifteen. The rolling hills and deep green dotted with the white of the sheep touched his heart and he felt fondly at home. 

                But he would not forget Scotland, for Bruce had become a friend to whom he would remain loyal to the end. 

                His mother's steward had come to meet him on the road. He was a capable man and trustworthy, loyal to his mother and her family and had toiled endlessly to keep her profitable lands and the lucrative mill that lay on them from her enterprising husband, the Earl of O'Neale. 

                He was to see that everything was in order, for Rowena herself would make the long trip home for a few months this summer. 

                But his interests lay in Scotland and the lands of his family here seemed well protected. Theoderic took possession of the lands temporarily from the steward and went presently to the mill to overlook its situation and then to the monastery. 

                He did not plan to stay here more than a month, only long enough to see his mother properly situated. 

                Rowena was spurred into urgency as she came upon the figure that had collapsed just outside of the forest.

                It was a woman. She was dressed as a peasant and she had marks of a fierce beating on her. Her forehead had a worrisome gash upon it and she was bleeding terribly from her left side. Rowena held the cloak of the woman away from the wound and prodded it with her fingers. It was deep. 

Rowena was unsure what to do as the woman was bleeding badly and she would not rouse herself no matter how firmly she slapped at her cheek. 

                Her breathing was weak and Rowena was desperate to help her. She wondered if the woman would survive if she left her just for a moment to fetch Helga who lay asleep in her family's castle across the river. 

                She looked about desperately, at what she did not know. Any sign of help, a passerby. But it was night—

                She heard footsteps despite the late hour. 

                It was Mungo who had approached. Salazar had come upon the scene next to the boy.  She did not ask how they had come to be there at that hour but urgently asked for their help. 

                Salazar kneeled beside her. He saw the gaping wound and the battered face of the woman and looked to Rowena questioningly. 

                "She came from the woods," Rowena explained breathless. 

                "She needs help right away," Salazar said urgently, gently lifting the broken form of the woman. 

                Rowena stood beside him, gently guiding the woman's head onto his shoulder. She made to follow him as he quickly cut across the bridge to Helga's manor. 

                But Mungo was missing.   

                Rowena looked around and could not see him. She called out for him and he did not answer. 

                Her calls awakened Godric who had come to see about the noise. 

                "There was a woman," Rowena explained frantically. "Salazar has taken her to Helga. I cannot now find Mungo."

                Godric nodded and they split up, calling for the boy. 

                Remembering the bundle that the woman had dropped beside the castle, Rowena headed off in that direction thinking that Mungo could have found something in it to interest him. 

                Her heart leapt as she saw him lying in the dewy grass, unconscious beside a squalling infant girl. His hand was upon her forehead where a cut had begun to close itself again. It was a baby girl that the woman had left at the school, attacked and bleeding as she was. It must have been her child. 

                Though her eyes were red with crying, her eyes, Rowena could see clearly in the moonlight. They were a bright crystal blue. There was a sense of the special and unique about her. She felt that this child would be powerful someday. 

                "Godric!" she called. 

                "What has happened?" he asked as he approached the scene. 

                "He healed her. He has spent all of his energy and collapsed," Rowena surmised, standing to her feet with the infant as Godric lifted Mungo's motionless form. 

                "Helga," Salazar said, coming into her bedchamber with a lighted candle. "We need you downstairs."

                "Whatever for?" she asked, alarmed and half-asleep.

                "It is urgent. You must hurry."

                She threw on a robe of deep green velvet and followed him. In the great hall of her manor lay a woman bloodied and battered. She was not moving. 

                Presently, Rowena entered with a crying baby wrapped in rags, Godric behind her with her son. 

                Helga cried out in shock as she saw her child. She immediately went to Godric's side demanding an expanation.   
                Godric explained hastily that Mungo was quite fine but worn out. It was the mother of the infant that required attention. 

                For a few intense moments, Helga touched her wand to the woman whispering incantations to close her wounds and revive her. She placed a hand on the woman's forehead and closed her eyes in concentration. 

Everyone was breathless with anticipation. All prayed that the woman would awaken. Rowena turned to praying for the woman's soul. 

Helga opened her eyes and sadly announced that there was no hope for the woman who had died. 

                Rowena looked sadly to the child in her arms that was crying out for her dead mother. 

                The two men present wondered at the words that she whispered sympathetically to the child as Helga quietly revived her son and lavished him with worried motherly kisses. "I saw her in a dream, mother," Mungo was saying. 

                He was stopped as all turned to Rowena with questioning expressions.

                Rowena had said, "I understand your pain, child. But you will feel it no more. I will be your mother from this night on and you shall feel nothing but love. You are wanted here."

                When Salazar pressed her later for an answer, Rowena merely stated that the mother had been an outcast and persecuted witch. She had seen her in the village on occasion, but had for the most part ignored her. She was a pathetic beggar woman. And now she was dead.

 She knew her child would be well looked after here. Rowena did not explain her sympathy for the outcast mother and Salazar had not pressed her further. 

                Maren was to be the name of the child and Rowena would raise her in as much love as her two boys had grown in. And they had loved her instantly as well. 

                In May of that year, she returned to her home in Eire for the summer with her son Galahad and her baby girl Maren. 

                She was happy to be home again. She had heard reports from obliging passersby that terrible things were to come. She had reports from Theoderic, who had come before her that her lands were safe and managed well. 

                Her husband, Sir Eoin O'Neale (knighted recently by the English king) had been to see the monks at the Cistercian monastery, however and had attempted to press them for rights to her mill on the lands. 

                Galahad and Theoderic were out this morning on a hunt. 

                She was with her child Maren, but her mind was on the troubles she was having with her eldest son. It seemed his heart was still with the brave Scots and their campaign against the crown. 

                She conceded that it was a noble fight and though she agreed that the school's best advantage lay with the independence of the Scottish lands, she would not go against the wishes of Salazar. This had angered her son to the point of silence. He would not speak to her and spent most days on the hunt. She feared that the time would soon come when he would leave and return to Scotland and its conflict. 

                She was rocking the sleeping Maren when she heard a shout just outside of the door. It sounded like the voice of her steward. 

                Rowena stood and placed the sleeping child in her bed, her back turned to the door as it burst open in splintering wood. 

                She turned quickly, jumping, startled by the entrance of her husband. Her hands were clutching the posts of the bed she had laid Maren in. 

                "You are not wanted here, Eoin," Rowena growled. "Leave!"

                "So it is true," Eoin said, moving into the room slowly. The spurs on his boots counted out the paces in metallic rhythm as he neared her. His eyes were full of malice. 

                "So what is true?" Rowena spat angrily. 

                "You have come back to make trouble for me," Eoin said. 

                Rowena pushed herself away from her child and stood facing him. "I have come back to see to my lands. They do not belong to you."

                "They will," Eoin said with a smirk.

                "What makes you so sure?" Rowena countered, raising her chin defiantly to him. 

                "The King of England makes me think so," Eoin grinned. 

                "You can take yourself and your king to the devil for all I care. We are never going to give our lands over," Rowena spat. 

                Eoin brought his hand hard across her face. He was still wearing his mail gloves and they bit into her cheek with a metallic zing. 

                She staggered but held herself up, pinned against her child's crib. 

                "Who is the 'we' you speak of? You and that child?" he asked incredulously. "Whose child is she? Whore. Do you even know?"

                "She is not your concern. I am. And I will see that you burn in hell. I swear I will make your misery my life's work!" She tore at his cloak and at his neck. 

                But he moved aside and struck her again, sending her crashing into a table in the middle of the room. 

                The child was awake now and screaming. 

                Rowena got to her feet stubbornly and her husband smiled, hitting her again, tearing at her lip. 

                "You dare to threaten me, witch? I shall have you hanged for the offense."

                He made to strike her again before she could get to her feet, she reached for her wand concealed in the folds of her rich robes, but in that moment Theoderic was in the doorway with his sword drawn. Galahad was behind him, sword in hand as well. 

                It was Rowena's worst nightmare, her son's fighting and cursing their father. 

                But he held his sword and smirked, insulting them and their mother as well, inviting their combat willingly. 

                Theoderic struck first. A dizzying blow that sent Eoin back against the stone mantle of the fireplace. 

                Before he could right himself, Galahad was on him dealing blow after furious blow. Eoin moved to one side of his son's enraged swings and pushed himself off of the wall, taking an ill aimed swing of his own, catching Galahad on the shoulder only. 

                She could tell that the wound was deep. He could not fight with his right arm and so switched his sword into his left hand. 

                He fought well with either hand and reigned dizzying blow after blow upon his father. 

                Eoin was so engaged with the masterful swings and decisive blows of his younger son that he had forgotten about the older one behind him.

                Theoderic nodded to Galahad who drove his father back against his brother. Theoderic used his father's backward momentum and the driving force of Galahad to take his father's feet out from under him. Moving quickly, he was on top of the man, his sword trained on the man's throat. 

                "By God and this day, I swear I will kill you!" he shouted. 

                His father was dully terrified by the combined rage of his sons.

                "Then do it, boy. Whatever is stopping you?" Eoin growled under the blades glinting point. 

                Galahad stood by, heaving great exhausted breaths. 

                Rowena lay watching the scene of Theoderic over his father with horror. He really would do it. "Theoderic!" she cried. "Do not do this. He is your father. Have compassion!"

                Theoderic looked to her and considered this. A moment later he stood. "On your feet, brigand!" he commanded of his defeated father. 

                Eoin O'Neale stood and sheathed his sword. With his hands against the back of his head, one firm hand of Theoderic's over the both of them, he was lead by his son's sword out of the room. 

                "By your compassion, mother, he is spared. But I will have no more for him," he said angrily before leading the captive Earl out of the castle and to his horse. 

                Rowena put one hand over her face and began to cry, rejecting Galahad's offer to see to her wounds. 

                He held her shaking and weeping, vowing that his father would set foot on the lands of their family nevermore. 

                "See to the steward outside the door. Your father has wounded him, I fear," Rowena sobbed to her son as the baby Maren wailed on. "And then untie your surcoat so I can see to that shoulder wound."


	5. Mischance

Disclaimer: The Founders and their school belong to JK Rowling. The rest of the characters belong to me, unless otherwise claimed by history. 

Author's Note: Enjoy, yee few readers!

Chapter Four

Mischance

_"On horseback was the swain_

_that bore his spear and lance;_

_'May Christ this house maintain_

_And guard it from mischance!'"_

_-Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_

                Now five years have come and gone as quickly past. 

                Mungo was made a brother monk and continued to learn patience and charity from his mentor, Eomer. 

                For his part Eomer remained sad and stoic wanting more for one last look at the face of his love than to serve his second love in all due obedience. He did it reluctantly and with a heavily pained heart. 

                It was also at this time that the lord of the lady's lands in this area, Sir Guy Ottery, returned after a prolonged absence. He was often away at his own estate to the south. Helga's wealth was independent of his own and he was never seen there very often, as it was apparent that he would find no affection there save from his children, now grown all of them. 

                Helga had been in more of a state of silent reflection upon his return and said nothing to anyone, saving her breath to teach her classes on herbs and healing. She studiously avoided Salazar who seemed content to do the same. 

                In true patriotic fervor, and in direct violation of his father's wishes, Aaron had joined the wars with the clans and fought under the banner of freedom that Wallace held ever enraging the kings' fury. When Theoderic had returned from Eire he went directly to Aaron and the battle that they waged at York. Rowena had no harsh words for him when he left. She was solemn and quiet and watched as he mounted his horse saying nothing to her. He kissed the young Maren and expressed his wishes that Galahad would soon join him. Rowena caught the fleetingly concerned look that her youngest son shot at her. He would never think to leave her without her wholehearted blessing. 

                Theoderic was, and always had been, quite headstrong and unwilling to heed the wishes of others. She felt that this was compounded, however slightly, by his anger at his father. Rowena wished there was some solution to his threats that would present itself. She was taking his warning very seriously after his visit to her lands several summers ago. He had, as he had said, weight with the king. She lived now in the constant but private fear that he could easily make good on his threats. It would be the ruin of the school. 

                But fear and humiliation paralyzed her. She could not tell the others whose lives were also wrapped up in this school. It was dear to them all. Rowena constantly battled to act on the right impulse. She had not at the moment discovered what that right impulse would be. 

                Presently she sought the answer that was written upon the heavens. 

                But again her eyes were summoned downward upon the ground where two children played in the twilight. One was her own daughter, Maren. A rambunctious child of seven, she was taught by her indulgent older brother, Galahad the ways in which to be a troublesome tomboy. Rowena smiled. Maren, despite her rough tendencies, had the appearance of a perfect angel. She had the brightest blue eyes that twinkled like the sky. Her hair was the cherubim color of the moon—a silver-blond that lit her rosy cheeks and crystal eyes like an altogether unearthly being. And she was adored for this. 

                At the moment she was placing a very thorough beating on one of Godric's pupils from the village and Maren's particular friend, Faramir, the son of the potter. She smiled as she noticed their opposites. He was black haired and dark eyed and nearly a foot taller that Maren but possessed a gentler manner (at least where Maren was concerned). Rowena had seen his progress in the tournament arts. He was a fast learner and a fierce competitor, even for the more advanced students under Godric. His abilities in the sport had caused her quite a problem in Maren who wanted to go the way of her friend and learn the sport of jousting. It was to be her first lesson in the differences between the behavior in a young lady and a young man. She was not a young man she would have to understand. 

                But Rowena could not stop Galahad's encouraging her. 

                He was teaching her, to Rowena's horror, how to shoot a bow. 

                Heaving a sigh and looking away from the pair fighting in the growing evening on the lawn at the school's edge, Rowena turned her attention to her notes. An observation caught her attention. She did not remember jotting this down. She must have gotten distracted the last time she was up here. 

                It read:

                _Conjunction of the planets Saturn, Jupiter and Mars in the house of Aquarius. _

_                The conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter portends death and disaster._

_                The conjunction of Mars and Jupiter portends pestilence in the air. _

_                Jupiter is warm and humid and draws up the unwholesome vapors from the earth and water; Mars is hot and dry, and kindles the vapors into an infective fire. _

_                Terrible calamity will arrive. _

Rowena looked from her notes to the stars and back. She sat in this manner for some hours and had seen that her notes were accurate. 

                Taking the steps lightly down from the observatory, she began to worry what the calamity might be. She was resolved to speak to Helga in the morning. Or if she would not speak, at least she could listen to Rowena's worries. She felt she could bear the weight of them no more. 

                  London was bigger than Christchurch by far. There was no comparison in Isaiah's mind as he looked upon the throng of people that pushed past him and his father. Isaiah was in such a state of awe that he had not noticed what had captured his father's attention. 

                Alongside his son, Godric had stopped, hassled passersby by muttering their peasant language and glaring at the two who inconvenienced them. 

                They had paused for a moment on the road that bore the Charing Cross, erected to the memory of the deceased queen. Godric blinked, for he could not quite explain what he had just seen to his distracted son. He felt his grip tighten on his sword and looked to Isaiah and then back to the shop front that had his curiosity. This time Isaiah saw it too. 

                For sometime more the two watched the passersby who walked past unconcerned—seemingly not noticing it. 

                Finally Isaiah looked away as he heard an airy laugh behind him. 

                He and Godric turned to see Azria leaning on the arm of her brother, Hugo. Both were smiling broadly, pleased to see their longtime family friends. 

                "How goes everything to the north? The school?" Hugo asked, embracing Godric and then Isaiah. 

                "It goes well. We are increasing our body of academics as well as pupils almost daily. I should know for it falls to me to make sense of them all. They are not all for combat or for the arts of herbs and most do not know what will suit them when they begin with us." Godric smiled, kissing Azria's hand. 

                "It is an important and arduous task, I am sure," Hugo agreed, making for the shop—a pub, that Godric and Isaiah were moments ago so fascinated with. 

                "Not so much as your task here. Does it go well?" Godric asked. 

                Azria took Isaiah's arm and fell behind Hugo and Godric who continued. She was eager for news of Eomer and of her brother, Mungo. 

                "Mungo has just taken orders and does well. The monastic life suits him. He knows more about the ways of it at seventeen than the Abbot himself. As for Eomer," Isaiah paused. He was unsure that it would do Azria well to know that he had also committed himself to the monastic life. "Eomer has had a falling out of sorts with his father. Lord Salazar has settled the whole of his estate on his daughter, Eowyn."

                Azria blinked in shock. She tired to recover her astonishment somewhat and inquired of her companion, "What and Lord Salazar has not a younger son by now to bestow his lands upon?"

                Isaiah knew that it was not out of malice for Eowyn that Azria was astonished, but out of a sense of guilt. It was plain that Eomer suffered over her. 

                "The Lady Verina is not well." Isaiah added at a startled look from her, "She is well physically. But she remains locked away in her room and often does not speak to anyone. Not even her lord."

                "Things have changed since last I have been home," Azria said with a touch of the mournful in her tone. 

                "It would do us all some good to see you there again," Isaiah suggested good-naturedly.  

                Azria smiled. "And how does your family do?" 

                "Very well, I thank you. My father has found himself a new pupil he loves better, I daresay, than when I was under his training. The school goes well. Isaidore and Theoderic will marry if he can ever spare the time for it. He is often at the wars with the clans in the north."

                "For the king?" Azria asked in hushed astonishment. 

                Isaiah smiled. "No. For Scotland."

                Hugo heard the hushed conversation. It had turned to the same topic that he had been discussing with Godric. "We may wish to continue this conversation in a private atmosphere."        

                He pushed a door open as they had progressed through the dark and noisy hall of the pub. Hugo nodded to the barkeep, who smiled knowingly back. 

                Shutting the door behind him, Hugo turned to address Godric's initial question. "We have had to take every measure of precaution in this town. The community of witches and wizards here are feeling increasing pressure. The next largest concentration of our people rests in your school." Hugo sat staring at Godric gravely. "That means now that…" he stopped. It was evident to all that he was regretting everything he had been working toward. "Now that the Jews are no longer around, continuing troubles with France and Scotland, disease… it will fall to us to carry the burden of guilt for these mischances."

                "Who tells you that there will be actions against the community of witches and wizards, namely our school?" Godric asked narrowing his brow seriously. 

                Hugo sent a fleeting look to Azria. 

                "I have a few loose-tongued admirers among Edward's War Council," Azria admitted. She pretended not to see Isaiah sit up a little straighter next to her. 

                "What are you suggesting?" Godric asked slowly. 

                Azria and Hugo shared another long look. It was clear that they had spent many hours in deep deliberation on this point. "If Theorderic has also joined Aaron in the fight to the north it would be easier than I had first anticipated," Hugo said more to himself than anyone else. "Our chance to safeguard the school lies in alliance with the rebels there. Our support in the wars in exchange for their added protection of land. Aaron is influential in the court of the Bruces. Theoderic has already earned himself a reputation with Wallace that we have heard of here. Edward loses his patience with our school of Scottish patriots. Either we remove our support of them and live a while longer on Edward's good graces, or we throw in with Wallace and Bruce to secure our lands. In the event of a victory, Bruce would be very willing, Aaron assures me, to recognize legitimacy of our craft and practices."

                Godric seemed to ruminate on this thought for sometime. 

                Azria looked tentatively from him as he stared at the ground in deliberation and Isaiah who stood to pace. 

                "We have done all we can in court. The support for our cause in not there as it had been before the Jews left. We do not live in the days of Charlemagne, who incited the penalty of death to those who persecuted our kind. Edward will glorify the killers of witches and wizards." Hugo stood now as well. 

                Isaiah looked fervently to him. He would agree with Hugo that this is the best course of action. But the ultimate decision would go to Godric. 

                "Edward grows impatient day by day for a victory over the Scots. He wants Wallace. With the support of our kind, no army could march against them. Not even the mighty army of England and its undefeated cavalry," Azria asserted gently. 

                "What is this place we meet in?" Godric asked. He had not forgotten the decision at hand, but a furthering of the plan had come to mind. 

                "Osric's pub?" Hugo asked, caught at surprise. "He owns the area around here. He employs a type of magic that keeps it from the detection of non-magical eyes. You saw it appear as you came upon it. But the others did not. They just walked right by. There is an entire community thriving here, behind this shop front. But none venture out now. London is a bed of suspicion for the so-called heretic."

                "It is nonsense," Azria argued. "Everyone of these people—good people, love and keep the word of God and are blessed with gifts that would help humanity. Instead they are shunned and hunted. I do not comprehend it."

                "Perhaps it is safer for you to come with us back to the school," Isaiah suggested in a whisper behind Azria. 

                "I would not leave my brother. And he has important work yet here to do, even if the Magesterium will fail," Azria answered while Godric was in conversation with Hugo. 

                "Can you get Osric to lend his magic to us? I believe it would be helpful as an added protection to the school," Godric asked. 

                "Yes, of course," Hugo added with a frown. 

                Godric began to laugh. "I do not mean to suggest that we will hide instead of fight. We shall support Wallace. I must be in agreement with the other founders, mind you. But they will not be hard to convince of the welfare of the school."

                Hugo brightened and was relieved. 

                Leaving the secured room of the pub, Godric caught a suspicious look from a man in a corner. He dismissed this quickly, owning to an unfamiliar territory. 

                Hugo saw him too and reassured Godric that it was just a traveling gypsy. That type was in here as often as not. 

                "You shall see me again before you know it," Azria said to Isaiah as he made to leave with his father. "Give my warmest regards to everyone at the school."

                "We will, lady," Isaiah said. She took his hand and placed in his palm a small letter that she had prepared with great caution and care. Taking it, he slipped it into his surcoat without a hint of the puzzlement that crossed his mind in doing so. He departed with his father, knowing not what tragedy would reunite him with his friend Azria again in the nearest future. 

                Flaxen wheat swayed carelessly in the breeze Rowena observed while she walked beside Rose and Helga to the river's edge. They all had heavy concerns and she was endeavoring to be as helpful to them both as possible. But despite her desire to be a fair and good friend her mind kept wandering from their respective dilemmas to her own, and wishing more that she could be one strand of the gay dancing field of wheat than a woman with such cares as hers. 

                She banished the thought and turned to Rose. Her troubles were immediate and sure and Rowena's were more like a cloud on the horizon—one that could tell rain just as well as not. She was having a difficulty in persuading her father's actions against Godric. Unaware of the trouble that his aunt's death (Rose's mother) had caused him while he was in London, upon his return, Godric would find that his marriage would be challenged. 

                The Lady Tess, sister to the late Godefroi Gryffindor, had upon her deathbed confessed to her husband that throughout her life she had possessed certain abilities that she had hid from her. All of her family had this gift. So enraged was her husband that he demanded of his wife, making her considerably unwell, whether their daughter was afflicted the same as she. Tess, with tears and regret, consoled him making his understanding of her gift easier than her own relieving of guilt at keeping it from him. Rose did not have it. Rose's children did, indeed, but not she. 

                Rose's father, Sir Hugh of Whitehall, immediately subscribed to the opinion that the Gryffindors had sold themselves to Satan for such a possession. It was no "gift". He applied to her directly, coming to the castle school where she was supplanted for the summer months. It pained her more to see his look upon her daughter whom he now regarded as a child of the devil and at her, carrying yet another one to disgrace the name of the Whitehall family. He demanded her estrangement from her family immediately. 

                She was thankful that her son and husband had not been witness to this. Indeed, it was all she seemed to say, "Thank the Lord in heaven that he had not looked upon Godric so evilly. He would not have borne it."

                Rose was in a state of uncertainty. Rowena sympathized but was prudently silent. She wished to keep this trouble from Godric but did not see how she could escape acquainting him with it. He would have to know. Her father could make very good on a challenge for the Gryffindor family lands. 

                Against her inclination Rowena began after some silence to acquaint the two women with her own very similar trouble. 

                "I did not know that you were having any sort of difficulty such as that, dear Rowena," Helga said with wide-eyed gravity. 

                Rose turned immediately and in an urgent tone she said, "You must not believe that all those who are without such gifts wish you harm. There are those that are in earnest of the good you mean to do with your talents."

                "Rose," Rowena said smiling sadly but appreciatively. "I would that there were one hundred souls as good as yours. I know you mean us no harm. But your kind and ours will not live long in peace." Rowena held out to her two companions a sheet ripped from her book of notes. It was the curious prediction she had made days before. 

                Both looked at it and then back to her. 

                Helga was the first to speak. "What do you take it to mean?"

                "Nothing promising. I think it is the future of the school, or our future, or that which is yet to come for me. Maybe everyone in general," Rowena answered hopelessly. She was tired and frustrated and rubbed at her burning eyes feeling as if she would melt with grief over the collectively deteriorating state of things. 

                She was grateful for Rose's hand that went to her cheek and gently wiped a tear from it. 

                Helga embraced her with an assurance that she has not had any foretelling dreams as of late. Rowena felt her tense slightly as she said this and thought that maybe she was not telling the entire truth of the matter. 

                "Holy Father who art in heaven!" Rose exclaimed beside her. 

                Rowena had now turned to see what had both women transfixed behind her. She could not move fully to see what Rose had exclaimed after, Helga was clinging to her for support and Rowena felt that they would both topple to the ground. Endeavoring to hold herself up and the added weight of her friend seemed to take all of her strength, but she shook Helga who was now regaining her senses. 

                Freeing herself of clawing hands, Rowena finally turned to see three men dressed in the garbs of noblemen on a hunt. They were carrying a fourth as steadily as they could. 

                She heard Helga beside her speaking soft words of resolve and courage to herself as she met with the concerned gaze of her sister and silent enemy, Verina. She had accompanied the men from the forest gently holding the head of the injured hunter. 

                "He was hurt in a fall, I am told," Verina explained as Helga met them at the end of the bridge. 

                "Lucky you were there," Helga said in an acid tone. She knew the face before she was met with it. Her husband was unconscious and in need of fast magic that might or might not save him. 

                "Go home, Verina," Helga continued. "You are unwell and should be in bed."

                "I can help," she argued in a small voice. 

                "You have done quite enough."

                Verina did not argue further, thinking more for Sir Guy who needed Helga's undivided attention. She stood back and looked on silently as her sister coolly placed her fingers at his temples. A moment later she pronounced him fit to be moved inside. 

                Rowena was astonished at Helga's professionalism under such pressure. She did not let on how unnerving the situation was for her. Rowena could only imagine how she was affected by the sight of his deathly pale face. 

                Rose took Verina back across the river and walked her home. Rowena watched as every now and then Verina regretfully looked over her shoulder. She wondered if the animosity that Helga treated her sister with would ever abate. But at the moment that was a secondary issue. 

                Guy was taken inside and Rowena held back for a moment, assuming she would be in the way more than helpful. She did not even know the arts of healing.

                Off to the edges of her vision in the weakening daylight, innumerable hours later she stood at the same spot. But now she was met with travelers. Godric and his son rode up to her, both looking weary. She regretted that she would have to apprise them of many lamentable events before they could even have water for their horses. 

                "How goes Hugo and dear Azria?" she asked in as cheerful a manner as she could summon at the moment. 

                "Well," Godric replied in distraction as he dismounted his Apollonius. "We have much to discuss and little time to act. Where is your son, Galahad?"

                "On the field with Maren," Rowena said indicating an archery field that lay beyond the school on the rise. 

                As she said this Godric nodded to Isaiah, a silent command to fetch him for important business. 

                "Come, we need to speak to Helga at once," he said taking the reins of his horse as Isaiah spurred his in the direction Godric indicated. "Is Salazar around, do you know?"

                Rowena reluctantly answered, biting her lip, "Salazar has left two days ago on business to London. Helga is occupied just now. Her husband was in a fall this morning. He is in a grave state."

                Even as she said this Godric was mounting his horse again. He held out a hand, cutting off her explanation and asking, "Can you ride?"

                Hoisting her roughly onto the saddle behind him, Godric raced from the river's edge and to the footpath that would take them to the gates of Hufflepuff Castle.  

                No further explanation was given to Rowena save a letter that Godric passed to her. She did not read it but struggled to keep her grip around Godric's waist and her fingers grasping the letter tightly. 

                Salazar had received a message bearing the royal seal and left immediately for London. Not even Verina knew why and she had been privy to most of her husband's most deep thoughts, suspicions and hopes. 

                But some were too important to share with anyone. Salazar felt the weight of this. He could tell no one what his reasons for the message where for, indeed, he did not know himself. 

                Even as he arrived at the dominating wall of the fortified port city with its vast markets and trading posts he could not guess at the urgency of the king. But as a faithful subject, one whose dreams and hopes were wrapped up in the favor of this one man, he would not question. 

                Instantly guards were called from the gates to escort him. He had been expected. He would not have to wait like the other nobles for an audience. This was not his first inclination to the unusual, it was just a confirmation. 

                Inside the cold and lofty stone of the seat of his sovereign, Salazar was met with an unbidden sense of entrapment. He came to a room, an informally adorned chamber with intricately carved, but not pretentious furnishings. There were various game animals on display that interested him very little. 

                But a map on the table caught his eye and he moved to look over it. 

                On it was displayed the whole of the island. Garrisons were marked vividly. His own castle and estates and troops had been indicated by several carved figures—serpentine, made especially. This was astonishing to Salazar. He was immediately aware that this was a display. For his benefit. To flatter and woo. He wondered for some moments more what the king was proposing before the man himself emerged from a side chamber, speaking forcefully to a servant who retreated with orders immediately. 

                Salazar looked up and made a slight bow. 

                The king inclined his head and asked informally how the roads had treated him. 

                Salazar replied with modest praise of the thoroughfare into the city. Very little was to praise with regards to the roads of the north. Some of the passes were only maneuverable by the locals. 

                Whatever was the reputation of the man, Edward was not known for dawdling. He went straight to the point. Salazar expected no less. 

                No taller than himself, Salazar observed him as a formidable man in his youth, now made impatient with infirmity. He had a slight cough and spoke with an ever-present wheeze that made Salazar want to clear his own throat, it was so persistent. But he listened to the man's proposals with clam and cool interest. 

                He was offered a seat which he took as Edward began.

                "The long and the short of the matter is," Edward said, pausing to cough momentarily. Salazar waited silently for him to continue. "I long for an end to the trouble with Scotland. How will I prove to the French that we are a people capable of rule on the continent when I cannot control the whole of my island?"

                "I know not, my king," Salazar answered evenly. He was feeling the man out as he was sure that the king was doing with him. He had had enough dealings with this particular monarch to know how to play his games. He was, after all, a second cousin to the man. His mother was of royal blood. This is why Edward was careful with regards to him. He would not risk having it known that he was a relation, however distant, to a people he despised openly. 

                "Ah, you do, Salazar," the king said with a smile. 

                "Please, my lord. Apprise me of my ignorance and let us not waste time further," he continued with a slight incline of his noble head, leveling shrewd eyes on his king with graceful indifference. 

                "I want Wallace. I want this rabble-rouser silenced. I want your associates in that school of yours to stop meddling in affairs that do not concern them."

                Salazar nodded slowly. "Scotland's wars with England do concern them, lord. Their school is there."

                Edward clenched his jaw and breathed an agitated breath that caused him to cough more. "Is it not also your school?" he asked through his hacking. 

                Salazar waited for him to calm his breathing and answered. "I alone would give my blood to see that institution thrive. I doubt that my fellow founders would give the same to their share of the commitment."

                "That, Salazar, is where you go in error. I have been informed of their plan to give Wallace and his peasant army their support. What am I up against if they aid this traitor?"

                Salazar was frank. He disguised his feelings of betrayal well, with practiced unconcern. "They will be a force that is unbeatable. It is not the conduct of a gentleman to employ magic on the battlefield, and Godric Gryffindor is the embodiment of a gentleman. But he possesses the means of strengthening and protection of his assets as war is concerned. His force of feudal soldiery could match your cavalry. His and Wallace's could beat any force you send against them."

                Edward nodded evenly, considering all of this. 

                Salazar brooded silently while the king deliberated. He weighed his options, surmised the king's plans, reasoned his friends' actions. He could not fathom Godric having plotted against his wishes—Helga he might have foreseen. Rowena was altogether unlikely. He debated the validity of Edward's information. He very well might be playing Salazar's sense of loyalty against him. 

                "That is why I am willing to strike a compromise with you," Edward said, holding a handkerchief to his mouth and hacking as discreetly as possible. 

                "What is the compromise, sire?" Salazar asked in a voice that lacked all surprise, or the pretense thereof. 

                "I wish more for a union between England and her heathen neighbor to the north. That is, after all, the reason that nobles, such as yourself, were placed at points throughout their territory. To instill the presence of the crown. I want this more than I want the disbanding of your wretched and heretical school. Give me this and you shall have your blessed school, free of the interference of the crown and the church. I can assure you all of this. But I want Wallace and I want Scotland."

                "How do you propose that I achieve this, my lord?" Salazar asked with mounting unease. He saw that this could be the end to his troubles, to the school's, to that of wizarding kind. He was in limbo. Should he take what was offered? Could he hold out for better?

                He did not think that a better compromise could be struck. 

                "You are a clever man," Edward said smiling deviously. "You will think of something. If you do not I will invade Scotland, damned be the cost and I will take that den of witchcraft apart stone by stone."

                Salazar stood. He was unaccustomed to the spot he now found himself wedged in. 

                The thought that Edward's information was valid, Godric had plotted without his knowing, made the offer more attractive. It left him free of guilt. But he wanted to be certain.

                "Good day to you and a pleasant trip," Edward said finally with a nod. 

                Salazar said nothing and left the king to his victory. Salazar needed to see Hugo. He would know whether Godric had plans against his wishes to throw in with Wallace. He knew the Hufflepuffs all too well. It would have originated in the mind of this one clever politician and his meddlesome Magesterium that had for so long been a thorn in his side. 

                Isaiah found Galahad where Rowena had said he would. 

                Sitting upon the low fence that divided the tournament field, Galahad was watching Eowyn as she instructed Maren in combat with a sword. He admired the agility with which Eowyn moved. She was a graceful swordswoman and her movements were effortless and deadly. She was gentle with Maren and practiced with the child, arguing that her size was better to teach the art to a child than Galahad's. And he agreed. Maren was learning fast against an opponent only slightly less intimidating than himself.  

                But Galahad was shaping her into something that her mother did not agree with. He secretly agreed that there was no place in real combat for a woman. But exceptional talent must always be recognized. Here were two such exceptions: Eowyn, with whom he would gladly go into combat with, and Maren who was growing to be more promising than her teacher. His secret motive had always been to save her from the vulnerability that was her mother's death and her eventual abandonment. Maren would never be helpless in a situation such as the one that had ended her mother's life. She would be taught to fight against the wishes of Galahad's mother, his brother and anyone else that argued the indignity of such a prospect. 

                Theoderic had said that Maren would never find a husband who would not be frightened of her. 

                Galahad did not care much one way or the other. He would rather have her with him on a hunt or in a battle than have her married off far away from him and living the constrained life of motherhood. That was no life for one so talented as she was. 

                "Swing harder, Maren," Ewoyn called forcefully. "Drive me back. Do not let me gain ground. If I gain on you then I can open up space enough to get in a full swing. Close the space between us and I have nothing to do but fall back to gain more space. If you wear me out in this manner then you have beaten me."

                Maren nodded in deep concentration. She was a strong swordswoman already. Galahad was proud where most others censured. But she was capable. And that alone eased his mind where she was concerned. 

                At the distance of the field Galahad was surprised to see Isaiah approaching at a hard gallop on his gray detstrier. He could not have imagined that he could have made the journey from London in so short a time. But there he was and in some hurry. 

                "How now, Isaiah? How goes London?" Galahad asked, standing from the fence and coming to take the reins of the heaving animal. 

                From his mount Isaiah turned to Eowyn and Maren who had stopped their exercises and were now standing quietly to one side of the field. 

                "Eowyn," he said forcefully, urgently. "Find your brother. If he is not at the monastery then send some of the order to find him. He is to go directly to Hufflepuff Castle. There is a meeting there that he must join. Take Maren to your mother."

                Eowyn said nothing, hefting her sword and taking Maren's, she left to carry out her orders as dutifully as a soldier, fielding questions from a curious Maren all the way. 

                Isaiah turned to Galahad and asked, "Will you come with me this moment to Wallace's camp? There the king has set a plot in motion that will capture him."

                "Of what nature is this plot?" Galahad asked removing leather gloves from his belt where they were tucked. Now slipping them on, preparing to ride, he looked up with interest and concern at his friend. 

                "The most grave. Edward means to capture him and disperse the rebels. Your brother is there, is he not?" Isaiah asked as his horse side-stepped impatiently. 

                "He is," Galahad answered. He reached for the reins of his own steed, a chestnut mare named Erindil. She was prized as quite a fast beast and useful in the lists. She was tied at the fence where he sat. 

                "My father and Hugo plan to support Wallace's claim to this land. They believe that it is the best course of action for the school. We must warn him or all is lost," Isaiah urged. 

                As Galahad mounted he continued, "With all respect that is due your station, Isaiah, why would Wallace heed the word of an Englishman?"

                "I do not hold lands in Scotland and neither does my family. We are above suspicion. And if he will not listen to Gryffindors, he will have to listen to his faithful patriots, of which both your brother and Hugo's brother Aaron belong."

                Galahad nodded his consent and they were off immediately. 

                He did not mean to be skeptical of their part in this, but Galahad was a very pragmatic man. He did not wish for the clans to lose their one leader. Indeed, he had hoped to gain his mother's support in joining the conflict. But he wondered what the king's retaliation for their involvement might be. 

                "Hugo," Azria said taking her brother's hand as he sat motionless by the fire of their small apartments above the street of the Charing Cross. "You can do no more than you have already done."

                Azria had been watching him nervously for a while. He was in a turmoil. It was clear that there was no more to be done that would further the good image and faith in the magical people. They were fast sinking in a sea of suspicion that, for years since the banishment of the infamous Jewish population, was eager to claim a new victim. He had often sat in this manner, when decisions needed to be made, when there was something pressing on his mind. He would pull a small scrap of material from his breast pocket, yellow. It was a tableau, long since gone with the Jews that were marked by this sign. It was Rebecca's. 

                He stared now at this piece of cloth in a mournful silence. 

                Azria could only imagine what pain it must be to have let down the one person you love. He was unable to save her. Azria knew he daily blamed himself. She was the first victim. She could not help supposing one of her family or dear friends at the school would be the next claimed by the mounting hatred and racism of the modern times. 

                She would not pretend as everyone else had that Hugo's feelings for his young Jewish friend were nothing more than that. He had wanted to marry her, despite religion and the obvious censure that would come about with such a match. He had told her this. 

                "You cannot save us all from hatred and cruelty, Hugo. That is not one man's job alone," she said, kneeling beside him. His eyes were vacant. They reflected the firelight but did not see it, did not see anything. 

                "Have I done what is best in standing defiant to the king? Could I have done more to gain favor for the school?"

                Azria smiled sadly. "You have done so much for the school. There is no more anyone can expect from you." She leaned forward placing a kiss on his forehead with devoted care. 

                He closed his eyes and heaved a tried sigh, resting his head on her shoulder. 

                "Rebecca would be so proud of you. There are none kinder or more willing to further the cause of right. We are all of us proud to know you, Hugo." Azria squeezed her brother's hand and added, "But now we must go home. I daily see a cloud of evil portent growing in my dreams."

                "I know you are right, sister," Hugo said sadly. "But I cannot believe that all of my work has come to nothing—our kind is just as severely persecuted now as they ever were. I cannot bear it."

                "You must. In the best way you can. The climate could change with the passing of the crown. We must wait and trust to God to change our fortune," Azria said, speaking softly. She was stopped when the door crashed in behind them. 

                She jumped and spun around, feeling Hugo's hand at her side, pushing her aside. 

                The intruders were soldiers dressed in the garnet and yellow surcoats and the seal of the crown. 

                "I demand an explanation for such an interruption," Hugo asked forcefully, furrowing his brow in anger at the inappropriate behavior these guards were becoming more accustomed to showing. He was used to second-class treatment as a Scot, but he was in no fair mood at this moment. 

                "Why arm yourself thus?" Azria asked at Hugo's side. She looked to the swords that were held gleaming at the sides of two of the intruders while the third wielded an ax. "We are not armed ourselves and will peaceably do your bidding."

                One guard smiled but the others said nothing. 

"What is it you want here?" Hugo said finally as no one made to move. Again there was silence.

The one guard grinning quickly grabbed Azria's arm, hauling it painfully behind her back.  She cried out in shock but did not struggle. She could not move, held fast as she was by one strong and armed guard. When Hugo came to her defense the other two guards seized him with far more force than the one had used with Azria. 

When he struggled, he was bound even tighter. 

The man that held Azria smiled at his attempts, which only made him angrier. 

His sister said nothing she only looked to him with fear and confusion. Azria opened her mouth to say something to him, but was silenced by her captive who said, "Take care of this one. I want to have a chat with the lady."

She was pulled from the room hearing behind her shouts that told her Hugo was attempting to get to her. Not knowing why because she could not see him now, she closed her eyes to block out her senses. She did not want to feel the guards rough hands around her waist or hear the metallic zing of a sword taken from its scabbard, or Hugo's shouts to her captor, nor the sound of the falling ax. She blocked it all out and would suppress it so deep within her own mind that, save for when the guards left after having all come into the room, bloodied, to laugh at her and humiliate her, she would only remember the eerie quiet of the place, the pain which moving slowly to the hearth had caused her and the sight of her murdered brother there. 

"It is our best hope to see this institution, our dream, thrive. Edward wants it torn down. He sees it as a threat. We strengthen the armies that fight against him. He does not see that we mean to further mankind. He does not understand our blindness to religion, nationality or station in life. He will only treat us as heretics. We must throw our support to those that would best understand us. Aaron is trusted at the court of Bruce and the other Scottish nobles. We must help the Scots win their independence and with that independence we will be granted the protection of the Bruces' army."

"And Wallace's force. What of that?" Rowena asked in a voice that betrayed her uncertainty. She was in possession of information that Godric was not. It was information that made what he suggested sound more than impossible. 

"We pledge loyalty to him. We help fight the British. We use what means God gave us to tip the scales in the favor of the Scots with whom our future surely lies," Godric explained. He looked to Eomer who listened with a stern but quiet and interested air. Mungo sat beside him and affected much the same manner. 

"You speak of treason, Godric. You are a noble of the kingdom of England and Wales. There will be a heavy price to pay for your involvement, and his," Rowena continued, nodding toward Eomer. Eomer seemed unconcerned with the prospect of danger. 

"How do you mean to protect your estates in Christchurch?" Eowyn asked without being invited to speak. She stood from her spot in the corner where she had been listening to the proceedings with calculation. "If you rise up against the crown, the king will surely strike there first. What would stop him from marching his entire army north to finish off our estates and the school? Would you not agree that you are risking much needlessly?"

Godric turned to her and looked upon her earnestly. She was only just younger than his own daughter, who at eighteen was everything a man would pride himself in a daughter. She would marry respectably into the Ravenclaw family and she was soft spoken and took great care never to speak down to her superiors. Godric made great allowances for the favorite and the daughter of his lifelong friend who was absent at the moment. 

Eowyn shook her corn silk hair from her shoulders and continued defiantly, "I wonder that you chose the precise moment that my father is away on business to the south to bring this proposition to the table, Lord Gryffindor."

"Keep your tongue, Eowyn or leave the room," Eomer said, speaking for the first time since he had entered. 

She shot him a glance of contempt but fell silent. 

"No, I do not mean to plot against your father," Godric explained. "But the matter is of some urgency. Indeed, the king's plans might already have been set in motion and therefore this discussion matters not. But Isaiah and Galahad have gone north to meet the rebels and will do what they can to foil Edward. If they fail it is the fall of our school and the end of wizarding-non-wizarding relations."

"So, it is not even a debate on the matter?" Eowyn persisted. "You have already acted for the ruin of all of us."

"Eowyn," Eomer said in an agitated tone. "I grow tired of your conspiracy theories. Sit down and be silent."

"I acted to save the life of a noble man who is fighting for a just cause. Maybe he is already captured. I know not. But there was no time to wait. The king has acted long before I have. The battle lines are now drawn. We must decide where our loyalties lie. For my part, I support Wallace and Scotland."

"Then I am with you, Godric," Rowena said taking his hand as she pledged this. 

"And I will also support your decision," Eomer added. 

Eowyn stood immediately and left the room. 

"I am glad that it is so, Eomer," Godric said when Eowyn had left them. "I will need your help with an added protection for the school and of our lands. Tell me, are you well versed in wards?"

"I will accomplish anything you may require of me," Eomer said with a bow. He and Mungo stood. Godric stood as well. 

"Very well. Meet me at the school in an hour and we will make the necessary preparations."

Eomer and Mungo left Rowena and Godric. 

"I wish there was another way," she said softly. 

"So do I," Godric admitted. "But there is something else troubling you?"

Rowena smiled. It must have been written upon her face. She felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "Yes, there is. It might prove disastrous to our new found plans. Forgive me for mentioning this no sooner. I did not want to speak of such a thing in front of Salazar's child. She is a suspicious one."

"She is motivated out of deep respect for her father. She is harmless," Godric said, sitting again. "Tell me what troubles you. Surely you trust me enough with your affairs."

"Of course, friend," Rowena conceded immediately. But it was harder to put her worries and concerns into words. 

Godric took her hand and looked earnestly into her eyes, surprised by the weariness they conveyed. Had it been so long since he had looked this closely at his friend? "You have been carrying your burden for quite a while," he said in astonishment. 

Rowena merely nodded. "I was afraid to tell you all, for it concerns this school. Salazar especially would see me as a threat to the very foundation of this school in which he has wrapped up so much of his life." Godric nodded slowly. He could not stop the pace of his heart, which caused the blood to pound deafeningly in his ears. He was apprehensive for what she would reveal. 

"I have long been estranged from my husband, whom you do not know. He is Eoin O'Neale and the head of a powerful tribe on his island. He is the father of my two sons, but he wanted nothing to do with them when he found out who and what I am. He comes from a superstitious people. He did not understand what my gifts truly are. And now he has allied with the king. The pope has secured him an annulment from our marriage agreement and he has taken a new bride." She stopped for a moment, wondering if she should continue with the rest of the humiliating story. In the end she figured that she must. "I was at my estate for the summer two years ago when he came to me threatening to take my lands. He had turned the order of Cistercians that I patronized against me. I have no support from them. If he can he will make trouble for the school as well. I have wounded his pride and he will settle for nothing less than to see me ruined."

Godric listened to all with a sick sense of injustice. He was becoming tired of the degrading situation of the magical people among the non-magical people who misunderstood them. He made to say something, but Rowena continued. 

"You are unaware of this, but your fate lies with mine. Upon the death of your aunt, Rose's father was apprised of her abilities as a witch. He has demanded that Rose sever herself from you and your children, as my husband has done of me and my sons. He poses a threat to us and our school just as Sir Eoin, Lord Whitehall does.  And it seems our enemies are becoming too numerable."

Godric blinked in shock. He did not know how to reply to this. "Is that the truth?" he asked breathlessly. 

"It is, my love," Rose answered from behind them. 

She was on the stairs having just seen to Helga. Her husband remained unresponsive and near death. Verina had also done for him more then she should have. It was generally known that her poor habits of eating and sleeping had considerably weakened her. She rarely appeared out of her own bed chambers and when she did she looked deathly pale. There was no accounting for her happening upon the party of hunters where Sir Guy had been injured when she did. But it was due to her that he was not dead already, as he very well could have been. 

"He came to see me as soon as my mother was buried." Rose spoke softly, moving carefully down the stairs supporting Verina, exhausted from another fruitless day of attending to Helga's husband had worn her down. She did not speak and seemed not even to breathe. 

Godric and Rowena both endeavored to keep their astonishment from showing. 

"Do not go to your home in Eire unless one of your sons is with you or unless I can accompany you myself. As for Sir Eoin and my father-in-law…" Godric took a deep breath and shook his head. "I will think of a way to deal with them." He looked to Rose and took strength from her trusting smile. He was in no danger of losing his wife in the same way Rowena had lost her husband, he knew this and he felt for Rowena. 

Verina took Rose's help as far as the stairs and quietly said that she would see herself to the door. Rowena inquired of her as to Sir Guy's progress, which was not favorable. Verina said goodnight politely and was nearly to the door when she collapsed heavily to the ground. 

Startled by her fall, Godric jumped to his feet and Rowena was right behind him. 

Her cheek was warm to his touch and her breath was faint. 

Godric called to Rose to get cold water and a cloth, lifting Verina lightly into his arms. 

"Put her in here, Godric," Rowena instructed, leading the way to the nearest bed on the second floor. She inspected Verina quietly while he stood by. Rose came in behind him with a bowl and a cloth draped over her arm. She was slow but moved as fast as a pregnant woman could be expected to. "She is just exhausted," Rowena explained and Rose confirmed. 

"Shall I fetch Helga?" Godric asked, eyeing the pale and unconscious woman nervously. 

"No," Rose answered, wiping Verina's forehead. "Helga needs all of her strength to see to her husband. Besides, she will be up by tomorrow anyway." 

"Do you know how long Salazar will be detained in London?" Godric asked the two women. 

Neither gave him a positive answer. 

Salazar found Azria in the place she had been fixed to next to her brother for quite sometime. 

He was stunned for only a moment, standing in the door and taking in the disheveled room and its slaughtered occupants. Terror only reigned over him for a moment. 

Salazar saw blood. There seemed to be blood everywhere. There were bloody footprints that trailed off down the hall, blood pooling under the victims and both of them were lying there. It was a scene unlike he had seen anywhere else, even in the vicious and brutal conflicts with the heathens in the east. Hugo lay sprawled on the ground, his torso was a mess of organs and bones. Salazar studied this with calm detachment for some moments longer. His breath steadied as he immersed himself in the detail of it. A Viking tradition, it seemed to him. The breastbone was cleaved perfectly in two. One set of ribs, perhaps the left and then the right, had been broken and flung outward. One lung and then the other had been flung over each shoulder. He could not imagine that young Hugo would have been alive through all of this. He would have died of the first blow. But to defile the body in such a manner was thought humorous to some. The Vikings called this the blood eagle and it was a heavily employed tactic during the raiding period before the conquest. 

Salazar came forward. 

What had happened to the girl, he wondered. She was laying across her brother as if she had fallen on him. Even before he moved her on to her back he observed that her stockings and shoes had been removed. She was barelegged. Her dress was ripped savagely down the back, her corset was halfway unlaced in the back, one sleeve of her white linen shift had been torn down the seam. And for all of this and all of the blood that was upon the front of her dress, Salazar thought of his son and his ardent affection for this girl—a girl he had never really considered, beyond her capacity to wound as her mother had. But she seemed less defiant, more helpless in his arms, dead. And he felt a sorrow and a pity for her that he had never thought she deserved of him. He prayed for his son's sake that she may yet be alive. 

There was no hope for the brother, Helga's stepson. But a shuddering breath soon told Salazar that there was life left in the girl. He held her close to him and patted her cheek gently, coaxing her awake. 

She blinked and her eyes came open. 

Salazar was relieved but cautious. Wiping a hand across her forehead, brushing her dark red hair from her bloodied face, he spoke to her calmly. "Do not move, child. You are safe."

He was unsure if she could move and she gave no indication that she was well enough to do so. 

"Do you know what happened? Who attacked you?" Salazar asked slowly. 

She swallowed hard and shook her head. 

Wiping blood from a jagged cut on her lip, he asked her, "Could you tell me if they were soldiers or thieves? Would you know the difference?"

"Soldiers," she answered. She took another shuddering breath and tried to sit up. Clinging to his cloak for support she looked around and saw her brother, though Salazar did all that he could to keep him from her view. 

She blinked back tears and looked shakily at him, as if she were in a daze. It was very likely that she was. "There were three of them. One carried an ax. They were guards of the king," she whispered. 

Salazar removed his cloak and placed it around her to stop her shaking. Underneath her hand, pinned to the floor was an unopened letter. She took it up and handed it to him. 

"The last one said that you would be expected. He left this."

Salazar eyed the letter suspiciously. It was sealed with the royal insignia. "I do not understand. I told no one I was on my way here."

Azria shrugged and wiped a hand across her bloody and tear stained face. She was perfectly correct in doing so. Whether he planned to call on them or not was pretty inconsequential now. 

He opened the letter where he sat on the ground next to her. 

She said nothing though she still shook as she leaned into him. He held the letter above her head as to block it from her view. He read the hurried script of the king: _You would be surprised at the lengths to which I could reach. _

An involuntary chill accosted his spine. He was sure Azria felt him shudder. He folded the letter wondering how Godric and the others would remain from the reach of the king now that they were marked as traitors. Maybe it was wiser now to support Wallace. But he did not have the luxury of choice. To prevent a repeat of tonight's events he would have to comply with the king. There was now much more at stake than his school. 

He threw the letter in the fire. 

"Can you stand?"

She looked distractedly to him and stood on bare feet, pulling his cloak tighter around her. 

He nodded and pulled out a chair for her. On closer inspection she did not seem to be injured. The blood on her was mostly that of her brother's. Other than shock, and a few scrapes and cuts she was fine physically—that he could discern immediately. 

He filled a basin and dipped a cloth into it, cleaning her cuts. She did not respond when he asked her exactly what happened. She had the same glassy look when several minutes later and he had finished cleaning her cuts, he asked if there were any other injuries that needed to be attended to. 

She quietly stared at her brother and ignored him as he moved about the place collecting her necessary things. He knelt to place her shoes on her feet, and still she did not acknowledge the contact. He helped her to stand, and still her look was far off and staring. 

Salazar was growing worried for her and delayed no further in taking her away from this scene and transferred her home. In his opinion, she never should have left, neither she nor her brother. 

                They were met with great opposition inside the camp. Isaiah could not be certain if this camp housed the man he sought. Many of these camps were set up to distract spies. 

                He was aware of the looks he received, riding alongside Galahad. Neither of them was Scottish, nor did they possess the manners of that people. With a look to Galahad they both proceeded cautiously. 

                It was not until they were detained by a sentry that they knew they were in the correct camp. 

                The slap and suck of horses' hooves in the rain soaked earth around them and the raucous laughter of men careless with life filled the confines, marked by a mere scattering of tents. 

                Men in the tartans of their clans ventured by the sentry to gain a better look at them. These men were of little interest to Galahad and Isaiah, lest they answer to the name Wallace. But they were not permitted to see this man on merit alone. 

                Irritated and dripping with the drizzling weather as they waited outside for the sentry to return Galahad turned to Isaiah in question, asking whether it would be more prudent to seek out Aaron or Theorderic first. 

                "You seek Theorderic, Anglish?" a hardened Scot asked, sidestepping a crew passing with spears of long timber. 

                "Yes," Galahad answered warily. "And I will thank you not to call me English, for I am no such thing."

                "Then your are welcome," the man answered, spitting on the ground and eyeing Isaiah, daring him to deny his origin. 

                "Do you know where Theorderic goes?" Galahad said, ignoring the hostile look given his companion. 

                "He goes there," the man said pointing to a man emerging from a tent. 

                Galahad recognized the stern features of his brother, though he was dressed below his station, in a kilt of sage and brown. Next to him stood a man whose look bore great concern and care. He was as shrewd as Theoderic and wore twice the adversity and contempt for the captors of his lands than he. He met none of the descriptions that had now become legend, but he was recognizable all the same as the savior of this people. The brave heart and the noble soul of the Scots. 

                The man leaned to speak to Theoderic who took his council. There was a nod and as Theoderic looked up he met the eyes of his brother, detained by the point of a sentry sword. 

                "How now, Galahad. What is your business here?" Theoderic asked. Wallace remained at a distance behind him with several companions. He was never on his own, which was wise, Galahad reasoned. 

                "We come to bring you news of an ambush," Galahad said with little heed paid to the sword at his chest. 

                With a nod the sentry was called off by Wallace and the man approached. He eyed Isaiah and then Galahad. "What of an ambush, Irish?" the man said in a gruff and slightly suspicious tone. 

                "A plot of the king's devising," Isaiah answered. 

                He was met with the cold blue eyes of the man. He found that they were twice as cold as a mid-winter's frost when leveled directly on you. 

                "Coming in a warning from an Anglish?" the man asked incredulously. "What is your name and title, sir?" Wallace asked. 

                "I am the son of Lord Godric Gryffindor of Christchurch."

                "And this is my brother Galahad," Theoderic interrupted. "I vouch for both of them."

                "Have you a meeting with a magnate of the crown?" Galahad asked urgently. 

                Wallace nodded. "We go to Bothwell Castle in the morn to meet with the Princess."

                "She will not arrive," Galahad said, turning from Wallace to speak directly to his brother. "I swear it. You will meet with soldiers under a flag of peace. The plan has been intercepted by our faithful servants in London who risk their lives to warn you."

                "You risk much too, young Ravenclaw and son of Gryffindor," Wallace conceded. 

                "We will risk everything we have to offer up to your cause," Isaiah said with confidence. 

                Theoderic could not hide his pleasure at this announcement. He had been hoping for such an alliance ever since he had joined Wallace's campaign. 

                "That is the pledge of the Gryffindor House," Isaiah said. 

                "And the pledge of the Ravenclaws. Aaron of the House of Hufflepuff I believe has already made himself of service to the claimant to the Scottish throne?"

                "He has," Wallace agreed. 

                "And you have the full support of the community of witches and wizards within the borders of this land." Isaiah made free to place the whole of the school at the service of the cause. For it was the whole school that would need Wallace and Bruce's safeguard against the English crown. 

                "I accept your service," Wallace said, extending his hand to Isaiah and then to Galahad. "Any land that lay within our borders is assured of our protection, and that extends to any institution that rests on those grounds."

                A deal was struck that day that was to be the turning point for the magical community of that island and the decisive moment in the war for the independence of one nation. 

                Through the succeeding months when Galahad and Isaiah declared themselves for Scotland and fought under Wallace, Galahad would often remember his brother's stories of the inspiring man and High Protector of Scotland. "He could stir the very soul of men by the passion with which he fights. While nobles fight and squabble over the scraps of England's table, he bleeds with the rabble and makes the difference on the field. Many would follow him and so would I," Theoderic would say. "Not because he fights for titles and land, but because he fights for something I have never known, something that colors my dreams and leaves me longing and sad for it when I wake. Freedom. The utter banishment of tyranny and the flourishing of an independent life from the stifling politic of England."

                Galahad fought inspired by these words and by the man that inspired them in turn. 

                He would know no greater satisfaction in life than victory in the campaigns for Scottish independence. 

                But a cloud had gather further off on the horizon. 

                Angered by his failed ambush, and another set a few months afterward, Edward I pulled many troops off of his campaigns in Gascony on the continent and sent them north on a wild spree of destruction. This was a specific message to those that harbored the magical that death would be the price. The non-magical people were listening. 

                But the school was never found. 

                The lands of Gryffindor the traitor were not found. It was the same for the others who supported the rebel cause in Scotland. The Ravenclaw lands, the Hufflepuff lands, the Ottery lands and even his ally Slytherin. 

                The more his efforts were frustrated the more earnest the king became. 

                In the year of Our Lord 1301, two neighboring castles were sacked and troops of the English Army were garrisoned here. At Caerlaverock Castle and again at Bothwell Castle, Edward's campaign brought devastation to the Scottish nobles, most of whom were ready to bargain a compromise with the king in order to stop the ravaging of their lands. It was with the peasants that Wallace and his men depended for support now, save one man, Robert the Bruce. 

                Salazar returned home from his short stay in London much changed. 

                He brought with him Azria who remained closed off to human contact and seemingly incapable of speech. It was a mechanism of defense, Salazar reasoned, but one which was unsettling to him. He had never reached a clear idea of what exactly she had endured when she and her brother were attacked and it appeared he would have to be satisfied with no answer. 

                He returned her to her home at Hufflepuff Castle, eager to return to his own home. But he found that he could not leave the traumatized girl there without an explanation as to why her brother did not return with her. 

                Upon entering the great hall he found the painting of Sir Guy and his infernal hunting dogs covered with a black drape. 

                Rowena met him in a state of unease and apprehension, begging him to come at once and do not delay. 

                Salazar needed no explanation. He knew that all of the fuss must have meant that the lady of this house had lost her lord in some tragedy. He did not feel sorry in the least and felt that his news should precede any recounting of Sir Guy's misfortunes. 

                "See to the Lady Azria. She was victim of a rather brutal attack while I was in London. I made to call on her and her brother while I was in town and found that he had been murdered and she will not now speak, having been violated in such a way that she cannot tell me the details of their attack." He handed his cloak off to Rowena who was shocked yet concerned and speechless. He moved out of the room, placing the girl in her care. 

                He went to see the lady of the house without being acquainted of the details. Helga would have to provide them after she heard of the fate of her son.

                The knocking on the door was not what had awakened her. Mere seconds before she had seen it in her unawakened moments and then had shot up out of sleep so fast, tears running down her face as if they had started in dream. 

                She raised herself on aching limbs and opened the door to the one who had knocked, assuming it was Rowena. She had sent the others to their duties at the school and to their homes and families. There was no more to be done, no one left to help. 

                This was the room in which he died and, though it was her imagination, the smell of death still hung heavy in the air. He did not smell it as he entered, but it suffocated her, like he had in life as well. 

                Salazar entered without being asked, taking her pain and guilt and casting it aside for another day. He had something to tell her, more important than he was grieved by the loss of her husband. She knew he was above pretending that he was. 

                "I have just come from the side of your dead son at London," he said without ceremony. 

                And in some way she already knew this. It was him she had seen in her dream. These tears were for him and not for her husband whom she did not mourn. 

                "Your daughter is here. I have brought her with me. Everything has failed. All by your imprudence and Godric's and I fear to say Rowena's as well."

                Helga faltered for a moment.              

                Her vision swam and then she collapsed into him. He caught her effortlessly, more because he knew her ways, her limits, and anticipated her reaction. 

                "No," she said in a small voice. "It is I who am being punished alone. I am doomed to live with the choices I make."

                "As we all are," Salazar answered. 

                Her blue eyes shot up to his and she held his gaze wanting to tell him that it was not so. But it was. There was no escape from the consequences of your choices. 

                "You told me to forget you," she said, turning from him, wrenching herself from his grip and moving toward the window. She could not be near him, it gave rise to the feelings that motivated her but those deepest longings that would remain unexplored. She felt in him the same desires. 

                Did they motivate him into actions that he would not normally take? 

                Was she weaker than he?

                She did not want to believe so. 

                "And have you?" he asked, the feeling of their last fleeting kiss coming briefly to his mind. This time it was not accompanied but the guilt of betraying Verina that had followed the original act. 

                "You are with me all of the time. It is impossible to deny the heart the one thing it longs for," she said in pained gasps, gripping the windowsill for support. 

                "I am the one thing you long for?" he asked. He did not move, not trusting himself with her vulnerability. He should have turned to leave, but he was equally rooted to this place with the wanting of more. What would she offer him now after she had taken so much from him?

                "You need not even ask. You know your are. You delight in torturing me. And I cannot now stop from torturing myself for the promise that my pain would please you more than my love," she sobbed into the window. 

                He could no longer remain where it was safe and found himself closing the distance between them in a mere second, so long he had wanted her to invite him back into her heart where he had never been happier. To deny the thing now would be worse than death. 

                It may have been a combination of the things he had seen lately; a young man slain brutally in his prime, an innocent girl mistreated for sport, the indecision that weighed heavily in on him—it all manifest itself into this one desire. The immediacy of her, his first and one true love, the smell of her familiar flesh, her wanting words, her unspoken need for him that mirrored his own for her. 

                His hand moved to the robe that hung at her shoulder. Lingering on the delicate skin, bared by the golden hair that she had swept tiredly into a knot, his fingers delighted in the feel of her. The brief thought that he should move away from her, deny himself the further temptation of her was banished from his mind fully and completely as she elegantly shrugged the robe off, letting it fall lightly to the floor between them. 

                She did not turn and did not meet his eyes and to him, this seemed like and admission of guilt and he would have pulled away in shame of his actions had she not reached behind her and pulled one of his arms around her corseted waist. He could feel the shallow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It was an erratic breath of anticipation. He found that he was breathing in much the same way. 

                The hand that she did not hold in her own moved along her spine, gently loosening the strings at the back of her corset. She turned in his arms, pushing herself away from the window, a final flinging to the wind of her inhibitions. 

                Her hands were immediately at his belt loosening it and sliding his sword gently to the ground. 

                He pulled at her hair in its knot, running his hands through the golden strands like he had wanted to do since his earliest days of youth. He had wanted her for so long. He marveled at the way it fell in glistening tendrils down her back and shoulders. In the evening light, guilt was shadowed by desire that had been born in them since their first days of acquaintance. 

                "I thought I could be happy with anyone so long as my estates remained from threat. I am sorry to have caused you pain," Helga said as he covered her lips with his own. 

                Working quickly on the corset, his fingers untying and tugging blindly, urgently, he shook his head hurriedly and said, "Do not apologize. It is I who abandoned you for a hopeless crusade. I am sorry for your loveless marriage."

                She sighed for relief and threw his surcoat off of him, discarding it with her confining corset. 

                Able to breath easier on all accounts, Helga's lips moved over Salazar's skin at a fevered pace that attesting to her longing. 

                He pulled her to her marriage bed, which stood behind him, neither noticing the great wrong in this act. The moment was diffused with immediate fulfillment, so blinding was their need for each other that all other consideration fell silent to the floor with their other discarded articles. 

                "Are you sure that you want this?" Salazar asked, pulling her under him. 

                Helga's hands went lightly to his back and traced the contours of his spine moving down over the soft skin of his thighs. She nodded as he shuddered from her touch. 

                "Yes," she answered finally. The answer carried the full and conscious weight of their actions. "No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed."

                "Did you not flame and I not catch fire?" Salazar asked lowering his lips over hers. 

                "You are the motivation of all I do," she answered. 

                Salazar placed a hand on her cheek and wiped away the tears that began to stream down them again. "Not the force that drives your spite?"

                She shook her head and pulled him to her. 

                Darkness hid their sin and made it beautiful. 

                Only with the glare of dawn did the pallor of their hungry and desperate actions, bear their true color and texture. 

                Silently both fought with the knowledge that such an act could not remain hidden. The mere challenge of doing so would cause them both to go mad. 

                Helga lay with her back turned to her lover while he sat brooding over the night's misfortunes on the opposite side of the bed. 

                She heard him rise and dress and leave. 

                Glad of his departure, Helga was left in her own self-loathing. 

                But Salazar was not as fortunate as she. 

                As he shut the door to Helga's chambers hoping to pass through the halls unnoticed he was met with the unassuming stare of Rowena, carrying a basin of water and some cloths into a room across from the one he had just exited. 

                She said nothing but continued on her way, moving into the room where Sir Guy's body lay in state. She had been up all evening preparing the body. This much was certain. 

                Salazar knew that Rowena was aware of everything that had transpired across the hall, even if it were impolite to tell him so. 

                He found something threatening in the unconcern she employed. Following her into the room he grabbed her forcefully by one arm and flung her into the wall nearest the door. 

                She gasped as her breath was knocked out of her. Her eyes flew wide in surprise and she dropped the basin, which crashed to the floor noisily and shattered at her feet. 

                One threatening hand moved from her waist to her throat and applied only the slightest bit of warning pressure. Salazar's eyes were cold and menacing. "Nothing happened last night, do you heed me?"

                Rowena made no reply. She was trembling far too much to speak. 

                Salazar squeezed harder, cutting off her air supply. "Do I make myself clear?"

                She nodded hurriedly and was left almost as quickly as the scene had escalated. And Salazar was gone. 

                She remained against the wall for minutes until she was sure he was gone. Then she bent slowly, afraid of sudden movements, and began to clean up the mess of pottery and water she had made. 


	6. A Means To An End

Disclaimer: My characters are my own. Rowling owns the Founders and their school. 

Author's Note: To my relief, new canon (book five) has not greatly altered my plans for this story. So, little need be mentioned of it. However, Mungo, we have learned, is someone different than my own character. Yeah, well…does anyone really pay that much attention to fanfiction? For all intents and purposes for this story, Mungo will continue to be Helga's son and the good monk. 

"Sir," said they, "a marvelous adventure that may not be brought to an end but by him that passeth of bounty and knighthood all them of the Round Table."

- _Sir Thomas Malory_

_'Morte Darthur', 'The Miracle of Galahad'_

Chapter Five

A Means To An End

            She scarce could breathe for all of the fear that weighed upon her. It almost bled from her veins and sucked her will to stand from her legs. She weaved and fought a wave of panic that felt like nausea. 

            Rowena clutched at the broken pieces of the bowl in her hand and with the other reached out to steady herself against the wall. After she had been sure Salazar had gone she looked tentatively—almost apologetically at the man that lay in state in that same room. His son had delivered the last rights and only just had exited the room. Now it was her task to prepare the body as Helga seemed unable, or unwilling for the task.

            Rowena fought hard not to meet her eyes accusingly when Helga entered. Of all the insidious and disgusting displays, taking up with her sister's husband when her own was not yet cold in death. She could not have thought it so, had she not played witness to the very act. 

            Almost as soon as she had thought the name, the woman appeared in the doorway scrutinizing her. Rowena did not seem affronted, though Helga was remiss in discerning how much of the scene in the room across the hall she had been privy to. Rowena would let her continue guessing and did not make an effort to assuage her curiosity. She said nothing to her. Moving to the body she dutifully sponged it, unconsciously careful of the wounds (as if she could hurt him). She pretended not to see Helga pull her robes tighter around her and shift guiltily from one foot to the next. Her attention for the moment was with the dead husband, so soon betrayed. It almost looked premeditated. But she immediately banished the thought and prayed that her mind would venture no further into presumptuous and unholy surmising.

            "I am come to tend my dead. Dear friend, you may rest a while. I thank you," came the shaking voice of the offender. 

            Rowena looked up in astonishment at such a brazen attempt at play-acting. 

            "Pray, _dear friend_, did you rest well?" Rowena asked bitingly, leaving Helga with no other impression but that she knew. 

            Helga's expression fell, pleasantly to Rowena. "Let us speak in truths, Rowena," she said solemnly. 

            "Non, dear Helga," Rowena answered hastily, holding a hand up to halt the other woman. "I will speak plainly. But I will have none of your _truths,_ as you would call them. There is no way in which you could explain things to me, no conclusions that I have not already arrived at on my own." Folding a cloth that she had been sponging the dead man with, she walked silently to the door. Before quitting the room completely she turned and said, "You would do well to remember that your actions harm more than just you and your sister's lord. We are all tied up in this. I go to tend your stepdaughter. Perhaps you ought to send a servant for her brother's body in London, if you have not already made the necessary preparations, that is."

            The insinuation was duly noted on Helga's face. 

            Rowena swept up the stairs in a raging, strange satisfaction. 

            Perhaps it is wise she thought as she went; neither of the guilty pair was at all aware that Verina was by her side with Sir Guy through the night.  Her triumph waned at the thought and she became sorry for Verina. 

            She closed the heavy oak partition to leave her alone with her dead husband.

            She told her nothing. Left her alone. She hurried up the north staircase to spell Verina from Azria's bedside. 

            Verina was there, sleeping with her head against a chiseled stonework edge to the frosted window. 

            She was not, however, asleep as Rowena had thought her. Resting her eyes, perhaps; hiding from scrutinizing questions, maybe; avoiding those who would pretend for her. But as she saw Rowena enter, Verina opened her eyes slowly and sat up, properly upright, and smiled serenely. 

            "I am sorry to have awakened you." Rowena moved fully into the room and swept the door shut silently behind her. 

            "It is of no matter," Verina replied easily. "She sleeps still." She indicated Azria lain out upon her bed. 

            Rowena was glad to see that her injuries were neither swollen, nor livid as she had seen them last night. "Has Mungo come, then?" she asked, knowing this to be true. There were three that could heal. Azria was one, and surely unable to help herself. Helga did not seem aware of her child's ordeal or her present suffering. And that left only good Mungo. 

            "And he could not persuade her to talk?" Rowena continued, uneasily studying the pale and worn face of Verina and the steady breathing of her charge upon the bed. 

            "She was not awake for the whole of his visit," Verina answered, rubbing her sore neck. 

            Rowena wanted to ask more, and not anything concerning Azria. Verina had been with her through the night attending to the dead lord she had just left. It seemed to have taken her less—much less—time to guess what was going on across the hall. She calmly performed her duties to the dead; not stirring during her prayer, though Rowena was in no doubt that she had discovered her husband's betrayal. Unearthly calm, she continued to kneel like the practiced novice she was, guiding the soul of the departed husband, betrayed as well. With the commencement of these duties, Rowena had witnessed her rise regally to her feet, steadied a bit by the table supporting the corpse. 

            For a moment, Rowena thought she would put an end to Helga's foolish and selfish deeds. It would have been what she herself would have done. 

            But no, not Verina! She swept silently from the room to attend Azria. 

            Rowena had only to reproach herself. She would have done it differently—they would not have been allowed to keep their shame to themselves. She would have made it public. And in so doing, she would have failed to reach Verina's unattainable regions of goodness, forgiveness, grace even. 

            But Salazar had come in that morning and threatened her. Rowena would have kept silent on that count if for nothing else but that Verina should be the one to voice her disgust first—if, indeed, such a woman felt such a primal urge. For her part, Rowena would feel it acutely if Verina was too good to feel so. 

            She was too much a penitent for Salazar's personal use. Verina would take his sins on herself just as Christ had, and take them as duty, while Salazar would feel nothing of them. 

            "You may tend to other things," Rowena said delicately. "I will sit with her for a while."

            "Are you certain?" Verina said doubtfully. "You were attending the good lord, Sir Guy, until morning just as I had. Do you not want to see your child?"

            Rowena smiled at the mention of her daughter, Maren. A brief flutter of pride and good fortune passed over her, remembering how doted upon Maren was by all. "She is, at present, with Faramir from the village and with your own daughter hunting."

            Verina attempted to hide a slight cringe. She wished her daughter were not so wild. But, however, so much like her father Eowyn was that Verina could not find a fault in her. 

            "As you wish for it to be," Verina said, slowly rising from her chair she had kept to most of the late night and morning. "I shall find Helga and see if I can be of use to her."

            Rowena immediately disliked this proclamation. "You ought to lie down in the next room. For you have little color and what I imagine must be very thin nerves. Helga can very well help herself. She has servants enough. She will not be wanting you." It sounded harsher than she had meant it to be.  

            Verina's expression fell at the prospect of not being useful. "I know what you would say—," she began. 

            Rowena had not the patience herself for this. "Put my mind to ease, at least, good Verina. You take too much upon you. Do not seek Helga out. Please take the morning to recover. I will not have you trouble yourself for one so wholly undeserving of it."

            Verina nodded. "But you speak unkindly of my sister, Rowena. She has had a trying time of her husband's death—" Again she was cut off. 

            "You are too much the angel for your own well-being. Darling, promise to me that you will take rest now; you may make yourself useful later in the day," Rowena ordered. 

            Verina was too good to disobey. "If I may not be needed here I will not trespass longer."

            Rowena was firm. "You will rest here. I will not have you going home to a husband who will not give you a moment to yourself." She was indignant and afraid that it sounded so in her tone.

            Bowing her head before ducking quietly out, Verina had already made a silent half-vow in her mind: She would remove herself from this place. This was a place she loved truly—and loved the people here as well. But she had failed to make Salazar happy in the way that she had hoped she might. After all of these years, she was realizing that he still only loved Helga. And she was…well, she was in the way. 

            Instead of doing as Rowena bid, Verina turned down the twisted stone staircase and bent her sights on the small refuge of a chapel that the Slytherins had built in the avenue of pines and oaks on the far side of the river. 

            "They say they will support Wallace, father," Eowyn said, intimating with little ceremony the meeting of Godric, Rowena, Mungo and Eomer. "My brother has said that he will support their decision as well."

            Salazar walked silently next to his daughter—quiet, to observe even those details of voice that Eowyn herself might be unaware of. 

            Eowyn noticed the unchangingly calm air of her father. He was not brooding, but in a peculiar state. She gave him a cautionary glance and then continued forward down the small path crowded by saplings and undergrowth. Really, the only person who cared to keep this path in good use was her mother. Normally, she would not come this way. It only led to the tiny chapel that was Verina's most solitary haven. She could not guess why her father was to come this way; only in search of her mother, she dared to think. But even that was queer as neither of them was in the habit of speaking to each other often.

            "And have they set down any course of action?" Salazar replied after some time and waning of conversation. 

            "There was a lot of talk of Wallace and of a trap. I believe Lord Godric said that he had sent his son and Galahad to the rebels in the north to warn them. Did you speak to the king while you were in town?" Eowyn asked, turning adoring eyes to him. This did not go unnoticed, nor did he appear to mark the glance at all. 

            "And what part has Eomer to play in all this?" Salazar demanded coolly, avoiding the answer that Eowyn was so eager for. He removed his eyes from the path in front of him and came to rest them on his daughter. She could not deny him the information that he wanted. She was so much like him, and yet so eager to please him. It was the only mark of Verina on her. He felt a sharp stab at the connection between them. His eyes turned immediately to the path again, lowered in guilty recollection. 

            A twig snapped on the path just ahead of them and Salazar looked up. 

            Verina stood in the path above them, just having come from the chapel. 

            She looked to her daughter with a brief smile that the gaining wind seemed to sweep from her face. 

            Eowyn closely examined both mother and father in only a matter of seconds left to her before her father ordered her from the wood. 

            "Eowyn," he said without meeting her eyes. "Leave us."

            "But father, they plan—"

            "Leave us child!" he commanded. 

            Eowyn fell silent and turned down the path, not turning to catch a last curious glimpse of the scene. 

            Once she had rounded the bend Verina spoke. "It is not like you to be harsh to her. She has always been your favorite."

            "And Eomer. Has he not followed you in every respect?" 

            To Verina was added another layer of gravity. "What do you mean?"

            Salazar slowed his intake of breath until it became a methodical rhythm, a tool for calming his tense nerves. "He has defied me, cast off everything, become useless to all but God. Oh, but let us not forget that he is now plotting against me, with my trusted friends, might I add. Perhaps you are as well."

            The fall in temperature of Verina's once warm eyes (he had remembered them being warm once, he thought) was nearly palpable. She stood more erect, though never intimidating at five foot three inches. 

            "You push me into it," Verina muttered to herself, "So be it."

            "I beg your pardon, lady?" Salazar answered, moving closer, as if to hear her better. 

            "I should have liked to spare both of us this conversation, but I can see it will be unavoidable. I have been long at prayer in my chapel, as you see. I can auger no conclusion for myself other than to take the council of Jesu Christ, for there is none other to be had," she looked up discretely and then back down to her clasped hands. "That is, none that I can trust. I am leaving, dear husband. I am leaving you, your school—"

            "Your children," Salazar added icily, sounding for the world as if someone else was speaking for him. 

            "My son who has grown and my daughter who is yours," Verina corrected gently. 

            "Then you just throw your children away? Fine mother," Salazar spat contemptuously. 

            Verina looked at him and did not move her eyes from their place until she had finished. "You took her from me. You alienated her from me. Made her up so that she would not know me. She believes me to be helpless and infirm of mind and dim-witted because I am not you. I have agonized over the decision that I have made long ago to leave the church. Long hours I have spent in meditation in my rooms over the matter. You would have her believe that I am ill and mentally unsound and you bid her come and watch me and take care of me. 'See to it that she eats something,' you say to her. I am not a child. I am not a lunatic."

            "You would leave because I care for your well being?" Salazar said in a clam and unfeeling tone. 

            "I would leave because…" She stopped and made to walk past him. She could not tell him why. She did not want to cause more pain than leaving would already cause for both of them. 

            Deftly Salazar reached out a hand and pulled her back to him by her arm. 

            She stared, quietly alarmed, as he did so. He had never become violent with her. She did not resist and made no further attempt to walk away. 

            "Because wherefore?" Salazar spoke slowly. His grip did not abate but grew steadily fiercer as his patience waned. "Why would you leave me?"

            Verina raised her eyes slowly from his fingers wrapped mercilessly around her arm at the elbow to his piercing and angry stare. "My decision to marry you has ruined all."

            In shock he let go. 

            He could not reply. Not ask her to elaborate. Nor demand of her further explanation. 

            She did not offer any. 

            Her eyes lingered with his until she had disappeared, leaving him alone on the path. 

            The voice and the words remained in the air like the ringing voice of a bishop imparting orders to a sinful flock. 

            He lowered the hand that had released her and stared dumbly at the spot where she had stood. 

            She knew of it. 

            She knew of him and Helga. 

            She knew and she was leaving him. 

            How long had he stood there repeating it to himself when Eowyn had appeared in the path again? This time with a messenger of the Royal Guard. 

            He took the proffered message distractedly and flicked open the seal without care. 

            Salazar read the lines twice before the sting could duly set in:

            _"Psalms 17:11. I have a proposition that might tempt you to heed me as you ought."_

"Psalms 17:11?" Eowyn asked, bending her head sideways to read the letter that Salazar clenched in his hand that had dropped to his side. 

            "_An evil man is bent only on rebellion, a merciless official will be sent against him_. The impertinence! Who is he to quote scripture at me?" Salazar seethed under his breath as the messenger rode off at once. 

            Eowyn looked up from the letter to her father who stared intently after the rider. 

            "All is lost now. Loyalty be damned!" He crumbled the letter in hand stormed back up the avenue, Eowyn close at his heels. 

            Galahad stood with Isaiah outside of a tent among many other tents. The sound of many battle weary men diverted themselves with raucous stories and singing around a large fire. 

            In this atmosphere the two foreigners were fairly unanimously ignored. One curious boy had come over from the fire with an offering of ale. Asking, "Are you spies?" the youth handed the cup to Galahad tentatively. 

            Passing it off to Isaiah without a drink, Galahad smiled amusedly and replied, "Would you expect us to tell you if we were?"

            "I expected that very answer," the youth replied returning the smile. "But will you give the king a message from me when you see him next?"

            Galahad nodded and leaned closer to the boy. "You are an acquaintance of his."

            "Of course," the youth answered with a crooked grin. "He will know it is I who sent this word with you."

            "Speak then," Galahad commanded as Isaiah laughed beside him. 

            "You can tell him to kiss his own arse, for if I or any other Scot were ever close enough to do so he should feel the scourge of a red hot poker instead of our lips."

            This pledge solicited from Galahad the response: "I should be pleased to be the bearer of such a message."

            "Aye," the youth grinned. "As should anyone."

            A moment more and the youth was scrutinizing Galahad's powerful build and manner of dress and speech. It was clear to Isaiah that his companion had a new convert to his own hero worship. Galahad would never admit to being admired, but Isaiah knew that he was the favorite of the riding school at Hogwarts and the champion of the lists. 

            For his part, Galahad remained ignorant of the admiration. Isaiah alone remained aware of it. It was he even, that had been the first to find the admiration of Galahad worth the practice. 

            "Irelander, Englishman!" Wallace stood from his place at the fire where the storytelling and singing wafted on the evening gusts. 

            The youth followed Galahad and Isaiah from the flap of the map tent where they had stood. 

            Wallace motioned for them to sit. 

            But Isaiah's eye was caught by one of Wallace's most trusted of companions. He singled Isaiah out especially, his expressive eyes and slight motion of a hand beckoned Isaiah to him discreetly while Galahad took a place near the fire next to his brother, Theoderic. 

            "Lord Hufflepuff and the Earl of Bruce will be here before dawn. Will you speak with them?" asked John Blair, a Benedictine monk from a very early acquaintance with the now famed Wallace. 

            "Why, brother, do you single me out especially?" Isaiah asked carefully. 

            "It is so odd to me that a nobleman of English title and land should throw in with the Scottish ruffians, as we are," he explained, pausing to stare humbly at his feet, mud trodden in thick leather boots. 

            "Is it because you doubt the cause that I have ridden under the banner of?" Isaiah asked. 

            "No," the monk answered quickly. "We do not doubt the sincerity of your cause. I feel that the more noble influence we have on our side…" he paused yet again, unsure of how to phrase what it was he was trying to say. "Well, like attracts like, as they say. We need the nobles, we need Lochland, Morland, the Bruces. I hoped that you could persuade by your example."

            "I am for the cause that these good men labor and bleed for," Isaiah said finally. "I cannot see how any noblemen could not be inspired by their example. I can speak for the Lord Hufflepuff, of whom I know well. He will fight for Scotland, with me, with you, with Wallace. Have you reason to doubt the others?"

            John Blair shrugged in his dark monk's cowl. "It has been in vain that William has rallied the nobles. He says we do not need them. I say peasants and farmers do not own cavalry. We need cavalry to prevail against the English. In nearly two hundred years no one has defeated the English force. We will not, either. Not in the form as you see us now."

            "What do you propose I should say to convince them?" Isaiah asked while scanning the scene of fraternity and joviality among the warriors. 

            "Tell them of the circumstances of your school. Convince them that Longshank's offer of nobility under the English is as repressive and lackluster as that of present Scottish nobility. Convince them that to live within that kingdom we fight against will be of no advantage to them. To fight for freedom must seem to them the only option."

            Isaiah thought on this in some considerable moment's silence. "They risk much if they help us…my family and that of my companion have risked much to support this cause."

            "And those men there that sing with Wallace, do they risk less? They have only blood to give to the cause, but they give it, give it freely for a chance at liberty. But they alone cannot win liberty for Scotland. Help me, brother." John Blair's eyes became sharp and intense. 

            Isaiah looked into them and felt the option to decline burn away from him. There really was no other choice laid before him than to perform this task. And he would.

            "But it is curious," Eomer murmured with a finger to his lips. He stooped distractedly near a bench to retrieve a discarded notebook, bound in leather and sown together with heavy twine, on the floor.

            "What is?" Godric Gryffindor asked removing his cloak and gloves, tossing them to a chair and missing. He was distracted by Eomer's somber tone. For an instant, he had thought that Eomer's limit to genius had arrived. 

            Eomer seemed not to hear him and began flipping through the pages filled with both his own hurried writing and Mungo's more deliberate hand. They had been working for days, losing sleep, experimenting, corresponding with wizarding merchants in London. But with Mungo gone to Hufflepuff castle to care for his sister, Eomer was left at the monastery's laboratory without anyone to puzzle out his newest theory with. 

            "Eomer?" Godric tried. He sat and waited, resigned to let Eomer answer when he had gotten all of his thoughts neatly situated, or at least enough to explain. For once, Godric wished that Mungo were here. He was never one for elaborate speech. In fact, Godric had spent many of Mungo's earliest years believing that he was mute. But it was not so. Mungo just happened to communicate enough to pass; an intelligent mind, of course, but not in the habit of verbosity. It gave him a very cool air at times that Godric, joviality being in his veins like a birthright, found unnerving. 

            But Eomer seemed to suffer from a lack of comprehensible speech at times. Today seemed to be the Goliath of these occasions. Godric was apprehensive. His inability to explain the "curious" must mean that there was a hopeless error, or he had found something. 

            Eomer brushed his ink-stained hands on his black robes. 

            He had had duties in the scriptorium earlier today, Godric noted dully. 

            Looking up brightly, nearly excitedly, Eomer exclaimed, "Incredible!" 

            "I'm not sure I have the privilege of understanding you," Godric intoned, running the edge of a knife over his thumbnail. "Can the wards that the merchants employ in London help us here?"

            "Oh yes," Eomer answered immediately, looking over the cramped table to his guest. Brushing a few Nordic blond strands of hair from his eyes, he said, "Your wards can be set. They must be maintained every moon cycle, I believe. But they can be set."

            Godric began to rise and leave. "I'll be departing tomorrow for the Ravenclaw estate in Eire. The Lady Ravenclaw will accompany me. Will you also?"

            Eomer looked briefly as if he would protest, but did not. He threw down his book again and accompanied Lord Gryffindor from the monastic grounds. 

            "Mungo has seen to his sister, has he not?" Godric asked, glancing sideways as he did to gage the look of his companion. 

            "He has," Eomer answered with a stony ring. 

            "What is his assessment of her?" Godric pried. 

            "He tells me nothing of her," Eomer answered. 

And Godric felt that his answer was quite right. Monks do not discuss ladies in their leisure hours, if there were any to be had. 

"She will not return to London," Godric continued. At this he failed too, to elicit a response other than indifference. 

Eomer answered with no timbre of surprise, no hint of interest, "Likely not. Her condition must be a very nervous one now. Town is not the place for her."

Godric nodded and left the monk on the steps of his monastery. He could not help the smile that had come across his face at the inclination he felt that the boy was still very much in love. It pleased him to see a young man burn with tragic passion. He had once felt that way, though he could not decide if he yearned for it still, or was he merely contented with steady and undying affection in his married state. Everyone must yearn to be young again. 

Eomer felt a rage heat his face, scowled, looked to the castle across the river and turned back to his solitary study and his new and curious find. 

The fire began to die long before the voices of drunken fraternity had. Wallace was becoming weary of the party spirit, and Galahad had felt for some time that he was desirous of a few private words with him. Just as well, he thought. He would want to know if there was a spy in the midst of his men and could not fault Wallace's long and piercing looks at him. 

Theoderic had been overjoyed to learn of his brother's liberation from the school and was looking forward to their many days of glorious battle fought side by side. He would want it no other way. But his was never a spirit inclined to be merry and went early to sleep, as he would be a part of the riding party that would make for Edinburgh. There the nobles had gathered again to bluster about birthright and privilege, having to protect interests, in all: tucking tail like all good noblemen did. His mind was heavy with how to persuade them that their chances at prosperity lay with Wallace and Scotland liberated. 

But it was not as easy as persuasion. There was The Hammer of the Scots. Edward I would not let any piece if the island alone. It was the same with Ireland, yet they were a more hopeless and scattered case. With Scotland, its nobles' loyalty lay with the King of England and all of the prosperity that was his to promise. Then, of course, there were alliances with individual clans to contend with. The Balliols had had a king endorsed by England. And he was a faithful subject to the crown—a quiet beggar dog at the table in London. But when it fell to him to raise money for England's war with France from his poor country of farmers, turning to France was John Balliol's answer. 

Edward I summarily cornered him, decimated his tiny Scottish force, arrested him and let him die rotting in prison: A fine future for a king who had won his crown by shaking hands with England. 

No, it was certainly clear that the crown would be bought the costly way: with blood, good, honest Scottish blood (And a little Irish blood too, if it came to that). And the one with whom Theoderic rested this promise was in the House of Bruce. They, like the Balliols, had claim of blood through David I, son of Alexander I. But unlike the Balliol clan, Robert the XVII Earl of Bruce would not likely seek to gain endorsement of his crown through English favor and bribes. 

Theoderic had seen him personally. And he caught in him a thread of the passion that William Wallace had for this cause. He was infected by it. It was plain when Wallace was around him that he wanted nothing more than to ride off and to fight with them. But the well-lain perimeter of unsympathetic nobles was something else to contend with altogether. The pressure on the young man to see to the nobles' interests before the country's was powerful. And they all wanted a share in supporting him so that they might have a claim on him later. Wallace would ride out at first light to meet them. Theoderic was eager for this chance. He would see his old friend, now the Lord of Hufflepuff, Aaron. 

Galahad watched from his warm spot on a wide log next to the fire. Isaiah had returned to the throng some time ago with John Blair, the monk that was Wallace's closest companion. 

"Irisher," Galahad heard from some distance behind him. He turned from the fire to see the vague outline of Wallace behind him. "A moment, if you would be so kind."

Galahad looked forward briefly and caught Isaiah's look. He seemed to ask if he wanted him to go along. Galahad gave a short nod, communicating that he did not think Wallace would do him any harm and stood, leaving his friend in the care of the monk. 

"The blaze could be no warmer than the hospitality," Galahad said as he and Wallace passed slowly on foot more tirelessly crooning men, some bloody and battle-weary, and out of the camp in the Leglen Woods on the banks of the River Ayr. 

"These men love their country and each other. They have bled with each other. They have suffered. That is a powerful tie."

Galahad was silent a moment thinking about what it would be like to be a part of this fraternity. "I feel like a foreigner here. And it is more than my accent and manners, I fear."

"I once felt like you. A stranger in my home was I. I was raised in a monastery and had a monk's education. My father was a knight, a low knight, mind you. Sir Malcolm Wallace, a great man as I remember him. He was killed when I was fourteen. I was sent to live with my uncle, a priest. That is where I met Blair." Wallace pointed back at camp to indicate his friend he had left there with Isaiah. He looked down and continued, "I killed a soldier one day, when I returned home after my education. I was never taught by my father to turn a blind eye when someone was being mistreated. I intervened on an unarmed farmer's behalf and became an outlaw. An outlawed leader to a force of less than five hundred men armed with farm equipment and weapons centuries old." He smiled at the thought of his army. 

"But I am home now. I belong here. This is what I was meant to do," Wallace said finally. 

"Why do you tell me this?" Galahad asked, a lack of a more eloquent reply made him restless.

"I see courage in you. There was a moment in your past, like the death of my father; that makes you want to battle your enemy bloody."

"I nearly killed my father once," Galahad mumbled, looking at his feet as they beat the cold mud frozen solid. 

Wallace said no more. They walked in silence a way further until the sun broke the dark horizon and then turned back from the river to camp. 

"Galahad Ravenclaw," Wallace said as the sounds of the camp grew nearer. 

"Yes?" Galahad answered. 

"Will you come to Edinburgh with us this day? You and the Englishman?"

She saw Salazar turn away from his path to the estate; he had seen her and she knew that he had not had all his say yet. 

"I will go with you as far as Wilton. From there I must to Eire with Lady Rowena," Eomer was saying to her. 

Verina hardly heard the last part of what he had just spoken. She continued to watch her husband's progress up to the bridge and secretly prepared herself for battle. 

"Mother?" Eomer asked. He followed her gaze over his shoulder and yonder to see his father's coming as he was almost to the bridge. 

"I will be grateful for your company to Wilton, son," she said, lowering her voice now as her husband approached hearing distance. 

"Would you like for me to stay?" Eomer asked, glancing back at his father without a word for him. 

"No, my son. You may return to your duties at the monastery. I thank you," Verina said quickly. 

"Ah," Salazar said, his voice ringing with displeasure, "the bitter fruit of my loins. Have I interrupted your talks of conspiracy?"

"I have no words to say to you. So I depart." Eomer leaned close to kiss his mother and said, "Until I see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, my love," Verina said with a smile and let her son leave, waiting until he had left the bridge to turn to Salazar. "Unfeeling father!" she said with strict control not to show her contempt of his treatment. 

Her stern words excited in him a strange feeling. It was as though she was completely transformed so that her beauty became god-like. He began to worship her from afar, as had been his practice. It was not a passionate love he had for her, but more an awe-like burning in him to see what was unattainable. How odd that one mother could produce two such children as wholly different as Helga and Verina. 

But then, he was reminded of his own children. Their binary characteristics must have come from the blood they shared with this woman. 

He loved this woman, was excited by her, intrigued, enthralled… Why had he not seen this, known this as a natural law of the earth, like when the sun sets it is sure to rise again after the moon dies? Why had he forgotten this truth and turned to worship the moon? Pestilential moon!

"Why must you torture your own child? Leave him in peace!" she said calmly. 

"My son would know what is expected of him." Salazar took a step closer. "No, he is your son. He has taken sides against me; against his country."

"He is my son. Forget not that the blood of my clan also runs in him, and in our daughter. Hate me. Revile me. But do not be cruel to your children. He feels his countrymen's struggle keenly; keenly as he feels your displeasure." Verina could not help the sting that came into her words. And for once, she did not control the ring in her tone. 

"I do not revile you. I ache with quite the opposite feeling, in fact," Salazar answered. As if to guard against the impulse of begging her that seemed to surge through his veins at precisely that moment, he changed the subject. "I must to London, almost this moment. Do you know where Eowyn has got to? I will take her with me."

"Take our child to that wild Babylon? No, you must not." Verina was alarmed. She knew just who would be the company that her husband would be seeking there. She would not trust her daughter to his kin, the royals in London. 

"Do not leave. Stay and I will grant you that wish," Salazar said finally. 

Verina lowered her eyes from him to the wooden boards underfoot, white water churned beneath them. "I must leave, Salazar. You cannot understand. But I have to. I know that you believe me to be seeking retribution for what you have done. Please turn that thought aside. I understand you as you have never allowed yourself to understand me. I do not want to be the woman who would be second in your heart. I see now that you cannot respect me when I am so much the object in the way of your happiness." She looked up to him. There seemed to be a dam of patience finally beached and she began to weep. "If you but let me be your wife instead of an object of worship assigned to a lofty pedestal…"

"You regret me?" Salazar said softly, the words almost spoken under his breath. "You regret that I took you from your holy life."

"I regret that I could not see that your love for Helga was eternal," Verina answered. 

Salazar spoke in shaky voice. Fear, anger, panic came to his face and manner. "It was a sin! A moment of weakness! I am by day giving myself to you and to God and by night sharing myself with Satan. Oh, Verina! Save me!" He found that he had grabbed her wildly by the arms and frightened her. 

She shook her head pityingly. "Had you not left me on that pedestal I could have been the wife you wanted. But I cannot save you."

He backed away as if she had physically delivered a sting to him, or a dizzying blow. "I would burn in hell to save you from pain. Now that I have hurt you I find hell a cold place."

She moved toward him, unable to stay her pity. She reached a hand up to his cheek and felt that it was, indeed, very cold. "If you will but stay from London, I will reconsider leaving."

Salazar looked away from her regrettably. He remembered the messenger and the letter tucked into his doublet. He could not afford to ignore this. And such a price would he pay for answering the letter. She would leave him. He could not stop her. He took a step back. They were parted. "I cannot."

"Then I must go," Verina whispered. 

"Lady Verina!" A voice on the bridge behind her shouted. 

Verina jumped, startled. 

Salazar winced briefly and spoke to the intruder over her shoulder. "How now friend? Sadly, I cannot stay for conversation. I must to London immediately."

"Sad, indeed," Godric answered, frowning in thought. His two daughters accompanied him on his outing from the castle-school. 

Salazar noted the two with astonishment. Had he not seen his closest friend's children in so long? The eldest girl was nearing the age Verina had been when she had consented to marry him. And she was nearly as beautiful, darker in hair and constitution. Was she called Isabelle or Isaidore? Vaguely Salazar felt ashamed that he did not know. 

He turned to leave. "I go. You and my wife have business and have long been desiring me to leave. I go to find my daughter. Pleasant journey to you both."

"Pleasant journey and dry roads for you, my friend," Godric answered back cheerfully. Turning to Verina he continued, "Lady, I have had word from your son that you will also join us as far as Salisbury."

"Yes. I wish to make a journey to my former convent. I have long been desirous of returning there." Verina could not say more. She knew that Godric's decision to support the wars for Scotland had estranged him from her husband, but still could not be sure that he would favor her wish to leave if he had known the true circumstances. But, in a way, they had all become estranged from Salazar, had not they?

"Have you any news of the battlefront?" she asked, being put in mind of it when her thoughts had wandered. "Has not your son and Rowena's youngest joined them up now?"

Godric became a little stony. "I have sent riders. One has returned. Battle is on at dawn; that seems to be a fairly likely hour. I have no fear for my son. A man watches his son grow, teaches him all he can, and then hopes he turns out. No, with Isaiah it is different. He always outstrips my expectations of him. He will come home to me. But casualties are, indeed, expected to be high. This will be the fight that decides the freedom of this land."

Isaidore stood a way off from the conversation. She held the soft hand of her sister, only a child of seven. She did not let on that she was paying attention to the words spoken, but she listened with a calculating mind. As she listened, her eyes located a man moving to the fields of the monastery across the river. The wind picked up and whipped her hair into her face. Impatiently she brushed it aside with her free hand and her sister chuckled childishly at the man in a black monk's cowl whose paper had been plucked from his hand by the sudden wind. 

Isaidore did not laugh. The mannerisms of the monk gave his identity away immediately as he chased after the scattered pages of his notes. It was who she sought: Mungo. She followed him with her eyes until he disappeared behind the wall. 

"God bless and preserve those brave souls. Helga has a son involved, does she not?" Verina asked. 

"She does. Aaron is with the nobles, the few that will commit to battle. They have been hard to persuade. He has been doing the lion's share of converting their opinion." Godric gave a tentative glance over his shoulder at his daughters. Isaidore seemed lost in thoughts of her own and Isabelle was amusing herself with the water below the bridge. 

"And your daughter's betrothed lord? He is in this?" Verina pressed. 

"Yes. Theoderic was always the brightest knight in the lists. I have every confidence in his return. Rowena's younger son, Galahad is with him. They make a stronger fight together than apart."

When he had glanced back at his daughters again, Isaidore had gone. Young Isabelle stood alone watching the white swirling eddy underfoot. He looked about for her and could not see where she had gone. 

"Well, I must leave you and attend to my abandoned child," Godric smiled. "We leave at dawn. Edward's soldiers should have cleared the roads south by the mid of night."

"'Till tomorrow then, Lord Godric," Verina said and watched him and Isabelle leave the bridge and return to the school. 

She said a quiet prayer for the soldiers who would fight at sunrise. 

In the low and dimly-lit stone rooms where the nobles met, discord rang like a bell on a crisp December day. Aaron acted the mediating judge; Robert the Bruce did not say one word but listened to every one spoken. 

"As wholly as I am English, I am with you," Isaiah stood arguing at John Blair's behest. "The Scots are not the only people who are hammered by the tyranny of Longshanks. And if my birth origins make my case and that of the school of my family and my kind untrustworthy to you, the noble fathers of this country; who are you to speak of trust when you will not support your people?" Isaiah drew breath for the first time it seemed since he had begun. A roar went up at his words. 

"You will not gain anything to stand with him. You only gain to fall, I swear to you. By God, he will sell you into the slavery of his kingdom." Isaiah was drowned in a sea of shouting once more. 

"I have sacked York, and you still will not support us," Wallace answered in monstrous tones, taking a stand next to Isaiah. Galahad stood to the opposite side of him. 

"We give everything we have, our blood if need be. You give nothing but words. Are you men?" Galahad said. Theoderic put a hand to his arm. 

"Insulting them will not win them, they are impervious to the injury," he whispered to his brother. 

"Taking on the English on their own ground looks like madness," the noble Craig opined. 

Wallace stood before him. Craig stood and faced his condemner. 

"You busy yourself with the scraps of Longshanks table and have missed your God-given right to something better. Stand with us as men. As countrymen," Wallace fervently pleaded. "My men have won at Sterling and at York and still you tuck tail and hide under title and land. Help us." These words were spoken directly to Bruce. "Unite us. Unite the Balliols, the Bruces, the McGregors. Unite the clans."

"There is much to risk," argued Craig. 

"The nobles will not commit to battle," replied Lochland, a Balliol and an arrant opponent of Wallace's campaign. He was Longshanks' bought man. 

Aaron moved toward Theoderic and Galahad and whispered between them, "Mornay is not here. What folly might he be bringing on us?"

"Let us not worry about the lesser and the cowardly. Will Bruce commit?" Theoderic asked. 

"I cannot tell," Aaron answered tensely. 

"There is much to risk?" Wallace said, moving deliberately toward the two offending nobles. "And the men that bleed on the battlefield; those countrymen that you do not have the right to call your own, do they risk less?"

Bruce stood. "Sir William," he said. 

"If you are the measure of a Scotsman then I am ashamed to call myself one," Wallace continued. 

"Sir William," Bruce pleaded, moving towards the doorway. "Speak with me alone."

Wallace turned and followed him. 

The room left a wake of turbulent speech in their absence. 

"Castles, lands, titles…There is much at stake," Bruce said diplomatically. 

"My father, Malcolm Wallace, and many others who believed in freedom died to support the levy to gather a force for the Bruces. I still support you today." Wallace's eyes were bright with excited fervor. 

"Why?" Bruce asked. His eyes grew wide and astonished. 

"I see courage in you. You and you alone can unite the warring clans. Lead us!" Wallace shouted. 

"I am no coward. I want what you want, but—," Bruce began. 

"Men do not follow titles, they follow courage. And if you would just _lead_ them they would follow you." Wallace burst back through the doors and into the hall and its torrent of disordered malcontent. He motioned to his men as Bruce followed him back into the hall. "The men would follow you. And so would I." 

He could do no more convincing than that. 

Robert the Bruce stood frozen to the spot and realization broke over him and shattered his illusions. No one could lead this country to liberty and sovereignty but him. Now he had to act. 

Eomer returned to the school vexed at his father's words without being hurt by them. They preoccupied him to the very steps where he met and nearly toppled Azria as she was on her way down them. 

"I beg pardon.  I am a clumsy fool," Eomer said immediately. 

"It is nothing. I have not seen you since my return," Azria said. She immediately saw his unease around her. She looked from his sad habit of plain monk black to his eyes that were sadder. She waited for him to speak, remembering that he was not well with words when he was around her. That was when they were all love and sentiments. She told herself that he has probably not burned such a blush since she had left. Why did she leave?

"Lady, are you well?" he stammered. 

She recalled herself and answered instantly. "Yea, at present I am well."

He looked down for fear that a blush of impropriety would come into his check unbidden. He only looked up when he was sure of its passing. "I scarce know how to communicate how sorry I am—," Eomer began, catching sight of her once again, a sad sight. 

"Say no more," she answered. "I understand and thank you for your sympathy." 

He nodded and looked to the books in his hand. He could find no polite way to excuse himself, though he did have a session to teach, having left her in such a way as to have turned her cold toward him. But, he hoped, that was long ago. 

"And have you found a life of contemplation and peace as a man of the church?" Azria continued boldly, pointing to his habit and the modest cross around his neck. 

"A man may be devoted to one thing alone," he said, almost immediately regretting his forwardness. 

"And have you duly devoted yourself, as a man of the Lord ought?" she asked, smiling sweetly. 

Eomer felt that he could not turn back now. She must know that he had not forgotten her. He would leave once she knew and he would be absolved of her. "Nay," he said timidly, "my meditations have been secretly obligated toward cursing the miles separating you from me."

She made to say something, but was silently surprised. 

Whatever her reply would be, Eomer would not know. Mungo arrived at that moment, winded as if he had run all the way from the monastery. 

"Azria," he said. She turned breaking the thread of understanding that he was sure she must have known as well. 

Eomer continued up the stairs. Mungo's voice and Azria's died to his ears as he put distance between them. Always distance.

"Will you come?" Mungo asked. "The battle comes to Falkirk. Swords fall at dawn. I go with Isaidore and Faramir. Will you come? We would not be at a loss if we had your skill."

"I will come," Azria said, looking behind her up the empty stair. 

"And will Bruce commit?" Edward I paced evenly through one of his elaborate halls.             The man that he interrogated rose and gave an answer in the negative. "Robert the Bruce knows the value of England's endorsement of his crown. He will not commit without the support of the other nobles. Lochland and Craig will lull Wallace into their confidence by first opposing him and then coming to his aid. Tomorrow they shall have a cavalry of three hundred heavy horse; all that can be gotten from our lands. And when given the signal to ride, they will desert. They will leave Wallace to bleed and the field will be yours, my liege." The man who spoke was Mornay, a duke in the clan of Balliols. 

A third man sat silently in the corner and caught every word, gesture and meaning. 

The herald was expected. 

Edward knew his kin well. His cousin will be arriving now. What he did not expect, and a pleasant surprise, was that Salazar had brought a guest with him. His daughter walked into the room silently beside him. 

She was a healthy and regal-looking child of about sixteen. Her flaxen hair matched that of her father, her carriage was so much like his without sacrificing any femininity. She was altogether pleasing, and what would be acceptable to the king as a relation. 

"I take it that you have come to accept my offer?" Edward said, waving the herald out of the room. The doors shut and the room echoed. 

Salazar stopped and his daughter did beside him. "I have come to end this ridiculous correspondence over many a rough road, either by hearing your proposal and agreeing, or hearing you out and leaving verily."

Edward nodded and came to stand before his cousin. "I do not think I have met this intriguing creature. Will you introduce me?" 

Salazar looked to Eowyn and answered, "This is my daughter and inheritor of my lands, Eowyn of the house of Slytherin." He motioned to Eowyn who answered by installing herself in an out of the way corner of the hall with a quick bow to her king. 

Edward turned to Salazar again. "You call me ridiculous and plan to hear my offer and leave? Are you yet young and foolish? I can have you sent to the Tower for defying me."

Salazar stood a little straighter, a little taller than his cousin. "Be not fooled by my ever-youthful appearance. Forget not that I am in possession of a shrewd mind."

"And I the charge of a kingdom which your very existence threatens!" Edward raged, bringing him into a famous coughing fit, nearly doubling him over. 

"I alone, or those like me?" Salazar asked when his king had finished, wiping his blood-spattered lips on a white linen cloth. 

"Do not play with words. You lead, teach, encourage. And now your school supports the Barbarians of the North!" His eyes drifted to Eowyn once more. "Tell me," continued he, "Does she bear the affliction of your kind?"

"She possesses my gifts and talents, yes. I have not pledged myself to one side or the other." Salazar became tense. He looked to the two guests seated at the other end of the hall. 

"You think me a simpleton, then?" Edward turned to share a moment of unspoken connection with these two men. 

Salazar followed his eyes, but was sure he recognized neither man. 

Edward continued, "I am the premiere of this country. I concern myself with those subjects of mine."

Salazar breathed evenly. "I understand your concerns. But what are they to me? I am well aware that you are king. Do you merely bring me all this way to remind me?"

Edward loosened his stride. He turned and surveyed his kin. "Merely to warn you, cousin."

"Warn me?" asked Salazar. 

Striding from him to the end of the hall, Edward indicated his guests and continued as though he had not heard the impatience, and far more the small sound of alarm hidden under layers of conceit in Salazar. He endeavored to control his desire to overcome his cousin's wits just once, and was so close he could taste the victory. 

"What is this?" Salazar asked, indicating the men. They were not guards, nor were they advisors. 

"A moment of reckoning, Salazar," answered Edward. 

Silence spoke Salazar's feelings of dread. 

This was not lost on Edward who did not break stride. "May I present to you John Mornay of the Balliols of Scotland, and, of course, Sir Eoin O'Neil of Tyrone in Eire."

"What have these men to do with me or my own?" came Salazar's reply.  

"Quite a deal, in truth. Mornay has sat in council with the Bruces. Wallace, in fact, has been guest in those halls on many an occasion. I am informed that he keeps very strange company these days." Edward let the silence hang in the air. He knew Salazar was curious to find out if he knew correctly. 

Instead of giving satisfaction to his king, he replied, "You want to tell me whom Wallace has seen and I have no objection to hearing it."

"Why," Edward said, eager to see his cousins face as he had informed correctly of his friends' deceit to their sovereign, "those in very close connection with you; a young Gryffindor knight, the Lord Hufflepuff," he paused, smiling, and turned to one of his companions. An ill-favored Irishman, "and two young men, coincidentally, belonging to this man." He indicated O'Neil. 

The Irishman stood and answered the question before Salazar could ask it. "My sons, Theoderic and Galahad Ravenclaw." 

Salazar noticed the hard and battle-marked face of the clannish warrior. This was Rowena's husband of whom was never spoken a word, by her or her sons. "I beg pardon," he said contemptuously, "I did not know I sat among such illustrious turncoats."

Edward interrupted, "Turncoat is a mark reserved for those who stand against England, dear Salazar."

Salazar turned cold eyes to the king. "Not against their own mother country? Not against their own family?"

Edward seemed suddenly wearied. "I will speak plainly." He sat heavily. 

"Please do. My patience wanes, liege." 

The king looked to his brethren, fellow conspirators. "Mornay will gain Wallace's favor by supporting him with cavalry at Falkirk. The battle is three days hence. O'Neil has also lent a conscription of Irish for the fight. For your friends' part in the matter, I will seize their lands. O'Neil shall have the Ravenclaw Estates in Eire. I will have the port at Christchurch. I have a watch on the town already. Support me and you shall have soul possession of your school… and an oath that I will never interfere in your work there."

Salazar continued to stand. "Gryffindor will fight. He will protect his lands. You cannot just march in there. You are already fighting a two front war with France and Scotland. Do not fight us, my lord. We will be forced to fight as well."

Edward seemed to take a moment to consider this. "He has a wife that is not of your kind, correct?" He looked to Salazar. He knew this full well. He needed no reply. "I will lean on her father, Whitehall, and, perhaps, find in him another useful ally."

"Of course," the king replied a moment later, with a cattish smile, "you shall have the Hufflepuff lands. Expand your school. And you will have sole feudal rights to the village of Hogsmeade on that land."

Salazar was disgusted. He could not accept this offer. And yet, the hour was too late in which he could do anything to its contrary. He bowed to his sovereign, motioned for his daughter to come, and left with her. 

Edward turned to O'Neil and Mornay. "Gentlemen, we have work to do," he proclaimed. 

Dawn broke over the Hebrides. It was crystal clear and brought a hope to the men who would fight on the ground the rays were now blessing. 

On a second evaluation of the situation, some of the nobles did send cavalry to aid the tired soldiers, most of who had already seen too much battle. 

No one had slept.

A hush was over them. Some busied themselves with one last equipment check; others took spiritual stock in case they meet St. Peter this day. 

To the helm of the crowd William Wallace, High Protector of Scotland, rode. Following him on horse came Aaron, Lord of Hufflepuff; Isaiah, Knight of Gryffindor; Knights Theoderic and Galahad of the house of Ravenclaw; and John Blair, William's faithful friend and guidance. He was stopped a way behind the others, giving a last prayer to a frightened boy. The others broke through the fore-ranks. 

Wallace wheeled his horse before his men. 

"Brothers of Scotland," he proclaimed. His voice glided over the sun-lightened mist on the hills, low-lying under the sleepy mountains; it carried over the plodding of thousands of enemy soldiers' feet as they lined the opposite end of the battlefield. 

He turned to his foreign patriots and comrades in arms. "Brothers of liberty, bleed with me."

Galahad's heart swelled with fervent pride and admiration for this man, this poet and warrior. 

"If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country honor," Wallace charged down the line, stirring emotions in all of his men, fortifying their hearts with a beam of that courage that burst hopeful from him. 

"Bruce has not come," Theoderic observed. 

"He will come," Aaron answered, eyes straight ahead, confident. His sword was at his side. He was ready for battle, be it his last, his best. 

"Many of our bodies will, no doubt, find a native grave. And, oh valiant bones! You shall be famed. And if forgotten in place, will never forget you in your cause! Do not forget in the dark what you have seen in the light!" 

A great cheer punctuated this speech. 

Wallace stood down from his steed and took his position at the front of his men, between Aaron (now unhorsed) and Blair. 

Aaron spoke a pledge, "I shall serve in your campaign, either until I am dead, or until we have victory."

Wallace nodded. Swords were drawn together. 

"War is the water I swim in and the air I breathe," Galahad said, drawing his own blade next to Theoderic. 

"Breathe deeply, brother. The hour is upon us. We plunge," Theoderic returned. 

As Isaiah's sword was drawn, a prayer issued from his lips, "Lord, make my blade swift and my aim sure, my heart free from the murderer's guilt."

The line plunged into the battleground. 

Wallace's voice rang over all: "Pro Liberate!"

They all committed to this creed and to this fight. 

And they fought their battle nobly, though the nobles flanked them and put them under. 

Still they fought. 

For freedom.

*There were some lines, particularly in the meeting of the nobles, which I have adapted from Randall Wallace's version of these events as they appear in the Paramount motion picture _Braveheart_.   But I have taken great care not to use the film as basis for my facts alone. I have done research in depth on Wallace and have found many contradictory theories surrounding these events. If you have grief with them, please let me know. 

*Also, some lines were taken from Philip Pullman's _His Dark Materials _series. The speech Wallace gave at the end was inspired by words from Shakespeare's _Henry V_, but are entirely of my own construction. 

Please, let me know how you are enjoying my story, and any ways you might think I may improve it. 


	7. Savage Spears

Chapter Six: Savage Spears

_"The savage ash-spears, avid for slaughter,_

_have__ claimed all the warriors—a glorious fate!_

_Storms crash against these rocky slopes, _

_sleet__ and snow fall and fetter the world,_

_winter__ howls, then darkness draws on, _

_the__ night-shadow casts gloom and brings_

_fierce__ hailstorms from the north to frighten men."_

_--The Wanderer, c. 975_

Isaiah stood, pulling himself heavily from the burden of his dead horse. Around him the smell of pitch and the sound of wailing hung. He put a weary hand to his forehead and his fingers came away bloody. The place that they had lingered upon near his hairline throbbed. He was unsure on his feet and the ground seemed to echo that sentiment, being unsure itself. Blinking, Isaiah remembered the blow that struck him down, the spear was still lodged in the throat of his steed. The animal was dying as it fell, pinning him to the battle's floor. His own sword embedded in the belly of an English cavalryman could not lend itself to his aid longer. He was stung, rendered unconscious by the blow of a sword hilt. Perhaps his injury was his savior, appearing as it had to be the blow that killed him, causing others of the enemy to pass him up, leaving him as a fellow of the dead that surrounded him on the cold, clotted gray and red-stained earth. He began now to search for his friends.

At the eve of the battle, their fates seemed tied to one another. Now Isaiah found himself alone, not even in possession of his sword, not even in the company of his horse. He was alone among the dead and the dying. None of the vacant faces were those of his friends, none of the lifeless eyes were ones he recognized. "The day was not ours," he gasped in chocking dismay to himself as he picked out a path for himself toward the edge of the field.

Across the field beyond the miles of torn and bloody landscape, Aaron, Lord of the House of Hufflepuff, sat under a barren birch. In his arms lay his squire and dutiful right hand, Thomas. Twice Aaron thought of removing the arrow from Thomas' chest, several times he tried to stand and go for help. Once he saw a friar pass some distance from him. He tried to call to him, to appeal for his aid. The rent in his side restricted his breath and made him helpless to save his friend, a young man whose wound was in part due to his action to save Aaron's fast fleeing life.

Thomas opened his eyes.

Aaron's own eyes left the horizon and sunk to meet those gray eyes. "Tarry, dear friend. My soul shall thine keep company to heaven. Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast. As in this glorious and well-foughten field we keep together in our chivalry."

"All blood you are, master," Thomas answered. "You must leave me and preserve yourself."

Aaron smiled in response. Thomas knew he could not rule the will of his master. Aaron's will was bent on fellowship in the hereafter with his one faithful comrade. Others had retreated, Bruce and the nobles seemed to have fled or turned. Who knew where their leader be; dead or dying, captured, alive and well. Thomas had stayed though this cause seemed to stir him little. He stayed because Aaron would not retreat. Aaron would not retreat from death now. His words echoed through him, his pledge to Wallace and to Scotland, "I shall serve in your campaign either until I am dead, or until we have victory." He prayed that Scotland was not lost.

A breeze swept though the birch taking the last of the summer leaves and the souls of the two men. They died before Isaiah had reached them.

Eowyn's prattle had harassed Salazar most of their return journey from London to Greenhill. The roads were turned mud with the first soak of the winter. The highways were strewn with farmers returning from market. Salazar wanted rest and solitude. But he knew he would find little of either. He was duty bound to act on Edward's words. He could make good on any threat. Their school was not impervious to his powers, his family's station as royal kin was not enough to sate his roaring superstition and suspicion.

"Father," Eowyn called from the doorway.

He looked up from the spot he had been studying on the polished tabletop.

Eowyn continued, "Abbot Marcus is here to see you on some financial business." She looked as though she was waiting to be filled in on what this "financial business" entailed. She was crestfallen when no explanation came. Salazar saw the waiting expectation on her face and was momentarily struck by her captivation of him, all of his maneuvering. He began to build an idea of partnership with her in his mind. She may become a very useful right hand to him.

Salazar nodded for Eowyn to bring the abbot in.

"Thank you, daughter," he said to her, calculating her reaction when he did not invite her to stay. She wanted to be a part of this meeting. She may suspect the importance of the abbot's visit. Clever girl. He smiled to himself.

"May I compliment you on a beautiful child," the abbot said, breaking into Salazar's thoughts.

He nodded and motioned to the abbot to take a seat across from him at the fire. In the abbot's jewel encrusted hand was a leather bound book. Nervously the man in the cowl and habit of the cloth relinquished the article to his benefactor.

Salazar took it without question. He opened it and curiously consumed every word of the first page. He flipped the cover over and saw the initials burned into the bottom right corner of the leather, E. S. This was a book in the possession of his son.

He looked from the initials in plain script to the nervous and portly face of a man more than fond of the deadly sin of gluttony. "You have stolen from a fellow man of God?" Salazar asked, perplexed.

"I merely come in council to show you that your son has gone astray. There are many passages in that book—presumably his own thoughts—that are wholly out of sync with the Truth. I fear for the soul of young Eomer. Forgive my forwardness in taking it to show you. His possession, as you call it, is in violation of our vows and therefore does not belong to him but to the community of brothers that he daily shares habitation with." Abbot Marcus shifted uneasily.

Salazar began to suspect his angle. "Why do you concern me with this? Cast him out of your order if his thoughts offend the fellowship so. I have no sway over the mind and actions of my wayward son."

"I merely point this out so that you may be prepared for the repercussions of your son's bold and heretic actions."

Salazar straightened in his seat and closed the leather bound volume in his lap. "Repercussions?" he asked with a theatrical raise of his faint blond eyebrows.

Marcus shifted again. "I merely mention the displeasure of your cousin, the king, to protect you and your noble work here at the school. It would be a shame to have this information fall into the wrong hands, Edward's hands." The oily words of the monk degraded Salazar's solitary repose. His first instinct was to toss the man from his home and forbid him to come into his presence evermore. Despite this inclination Salazar swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at the insinuation that Abbot Marcus held any sway over his benefactor, the means for his habits of luxury.

"What is it that you ask of me, dear abbot?" Salazar measured his tone and slowly asked the question that repulsed him to utter.

The abbot shrugged, his shoulders crushing his velvet habit against the folds under his chin, giving the effect that his facial features were swimming in flesh. "Your plans for the mill across the river are underway?"

"As you well know. For it is partially the land of the monastery on which it will be built." Salazar answered evenly.

"My aim is to keep the Slytherin name unspoiled; far from ill-repute…" he hesitated and finally leveled a significant look at Salazar. "That is, if I may own the mill in partnership."

"What you mean to say is you will not sell my son—a brother of your order—as a heretic to the pyre, and my family to the king for a share in the profits of my fulling mill."

"I mean to protect your family, sire," the abbot answered, his voice dripping with false flattery. "That protection is surely worth what I ask."

"What is in the pages of this book that has you so frightened, so willing to turn on a family that has done nothing if not elevate you among the clergy—an honor that certainly does not befit you. Tell me Marcus, how long has it been since Satan bought you, how long have you kept the company of women of the village in your chambers at the sacred monastery with Christ suffering on his cross at the head of your defiled bed, your monks extort the people of the village with false tithes to keep you in your jewels and velvet. How long since you shirked the ascetic life that is your duty, turned your back on the ministry. How dare you talk to me!"

There was a silence infused with Salazar's rage. His heated rebuke echoing in the ears of speaker and listener alike.

"You will have what you ask for. Get out of my sight." Salazar spoke finally, showing his contempt openly for the first time to a man whose relationship he regarded as a silent but necessary evil. "Eowyn!" He shouted after he had finished.

She appeared only seconds later. He knew that she had never left the room but lingered there just outside the door. Just as well. She would be involved anyway.

"Father," she said, demurely lowering her eyes. She could not face him in a rage such as the one she had just witnessed.

"Show our guest out." Salazar swept past her and out of the room. The leather-covered pages gripped tightly in his fist.

"Humbly," Eowyn muttered preceding the abbot and into the hall.

His notice of her as she entered the room was not lost on her nor her father. She was already working out the advantages of this when he had exited the house. She would use his attraction to her to the advantage of her family—her father.

She joined her father in his chambers at the top of the back stair. "What will you ask of me? Give me any charge. This is an insult. I will help right it!" she cried, standing directly between her father and the fire that occupied all of his attention.

"You will do nothing. This matter deserves careful thought and little foolhardy emotion. You will learn to be more like a man and less the fashion of your mother."

Eowyn lifted her chin defiantly. "I am not like her." She dropped to her knees lifting her face to her father's, a hand gripping each of his shoulders. "I would not leave you when you needed me. I am here father. What am I to do?"

Salazar considered her plea for a long time, letting her stay on her knees, seeming not to notice her waiting for his answer. He finally picked the journal with Eomer's initials up from his lap and instructed, "Make a careful copy of every note in here. Then return it to Eomer's cell without being detected. You have a fortnight to do this before your brother returns from Eire with my friend, Godric. Do this for me, my love, without question or comment. I will reveal my plans to you when I have evolved them further."

She nodded and left him in the solitude of his thoughts.

He wondered as she left him, gripping the enshrined thoughts of her deceitful brother, how much he could ask of her. He wondered what his son had given him in that journal. From the very first sentence he knew that it was something that would alter his circumstances—but much more, it would alter their course as a feared minority for centuries ever after.

"My steward has informed me that my husband, the Earl of Tyrone, is away," Rowena said, the old steward breaking away from the path behind her and heading toward the mill. She came up behind Eomer whose eyes wandered out among her expansive and youthfully green lands.

"It may prove better to have less of an audience in any case. What I do here must be in utmost confidence with every party involved." Eomer's eyes fell upon the mill damming the winding water below them. "We can count on your steward being discreet?"

Rowena nodded once very slowly. "I do comprehend you. My steward has served my father and myself and is acquainted with all of our ways and does not fear us. But may I apprise you of the details surrounding my husband's estrangement to his family."

Eomer nodded. Rowena indicated a narrow path that cut through the woods and they began that way. She was to show Eomer the limits of her land, four corners where the stones that will hold the wards on her land may be placed.

"I was a good match for him, he thought. My family was wealthy and without a male heir. My brother died in a clan war some years before my marriage to Eoin. But there is such a condition on these lands," Rowena continued, ducking under a branch that Eomer held out of the way of their path. When he released the small bough, drops of dew rained down brightly, catching the dim light of the forest at sunset. They both smiled in admiration of the sight. There was an unspoken agreement between them: Ireland was an enchanting place. Eomer was seeing it now for the first time. Rowena took pleasure at the expressions the sight left on his usually troubled face. "The condition is thus: Ravenclaw lands remain to Ravenclaws as long as any of the bloodline survive. My sons are all that are left. Eoin O'Neil would not hesitate to harm them if he could. He has tried when they were younger. It is harder to do this now, of course, because they have become men." As if clearing her mind to return to her original topic, Rowena shook her head and smiled at her slight tangent.

"Eoin turned out to be a very superstitious man, coming from a family uneducated in the benefits and uses of magic. He fears it—and us. It was not known to my husband what I was, what my family was when he married me. Only after my youngest son, Galahad was born did he find this out. I kept it from him for as long as I could. I did not trust him and I knew the reasons that he consented to marry me. But I was still true to my family and our history." Rowena looked down. "Here is the northeastern limit of my lands."

Eomer looked away to the north and back at the castle, in the loch, half hidden behind the hill they had climbed. "The stones will not be too far apart to prove ineffective. You have a small amount of land. It will be well protected."

Rowena nodded. "Small but valuable; and prey to every enemy. Eoin remains a hostile enemy of my family. He has applied to Rome for the dissolution of our marriage."

Stooping to make a small hole and inserting a wooden stake, a marker, he looked up at Rowena who stood watching with her hands clasped in front of her, "Then it is very well that this Earl of Tyrone is not here in this land. He will make trouble for you." He finished, dusting the rich Irish soil from his hands and the knees of his heavy black woolen habit. "Your lands will soon be safe even from him. If he enters the confines of the ward stones, all that will greet his eyes will be a pasture and grazing sheep dotting the green hills."

Rowena smiled at the thought. "How will that work. How did you manage it? You are, I dare say, cleverer than your father even."

Eomer's face darkened at the mention but recovered quickly and with grace. "The late Hugo's friend in London, he used a smaller scale operation on his own habitation there to stop the rioting that the non-magical community wages on them with the consent of the king. He had no idea what it was that he had done. I have improved it to encompass entire estates. The easiest way to arrive at the concept these wards employ is to think of this land as having many different outcomes. In one outcome a castle was never built here. Your family has never inhabited this land. There are only sheep and an occasional wandering shepherd. The outcome that you and I are present in, a castle does exist. You and I are standing here conversing. Should an individual intruding on your lands wander past the wards he would not see us, he would not even see that keep sitting high out of the water. In essence your land is hiding in another universe, another time, another outcome."

Rowena blinked in surprise and nodded. "I think I see what you mean. That is impressive, Eomer. You will be the savior of us all."

He looked away from her, to his feet and grinned. He remembered the sin of pride and swallowed the grin. He moved toward the river and the southeastern corner of the estate to continue his work. The ward stones would have to be in place before the end of this moon cycle.

There was no reason for alarm as Godric had thought when he came south from Scotland to the estate of his family at Christchurch. He rode the whole of the journey with Rowena, her child Maren, Eomer, Lady Verina, and his own youngest child, Isabelle in fear that Edward and his soldiers would meet them there.

Verina was seen safely to her former convent at Wilton, just upstream on the Avon from Salisbury. They convened there for two days and followed the Avon to its mouth upon which Christchurch is situated at its famous port.

Eomer, Rowena and Maren were to take a vessel from the port there to the coast of Eyre some leagues off. Godric had seen them off and followed the receding silhouette of the noble ship until it vanished on the horizon.

At the end of the wearying journey Godric deposited his sleeping daughter in a room at the top of the stairs; a room with the view of the sea spreading out in front of it. He lay her down upon the richly clothed bed reminding himself that no one has slept there since his own mother had died upon it. Isabelle was much like her in appearance.

He quietly exited the room.

Missing Rose quite a lot when he was home without her was not routine for him. Dividing his time and attention between his duties at the school in the north and with his familial lands in the south, Rose often accompanied him. However, since this was a rather last minute trip and she was well close to giving birth to their fourth child he left her in Scotland. He took Isabelle with him instead. She was not old enough to be of help to her mother, but just so to be a charming companion to her father.

Godric left the shade of the stone keep and went out into the late autumn sun, the last good day perhaps of the season, and sought the parish church where the bishop, his father's old friend, must be finishing services. He listened for the vespers as the sun began to sink behind the glittering expanse of sea beneath him.

The market inside the confines of this walled city was closing for the evening. Only a handful of the vendors that were usually thronging the alleyways and the main gate of the city on Saturday were present now. It was a Wednesday, and by the looks of it a very uneventful one at that. Several of them stopped as they collected the wares that they had not sold and offered a genial smile to their feudal lord or a word of welcome back. Godric returned all of these with jovial politeness. He would have stopped to talk to several of them, to see how the harvest goes. Many were his friends. But he was in a hurry and did not expect to stay in the area for long. He was here just long enough to secure the wards for his estate and the surrounding village. He was troubled by the fate of the villages outside of the area. Many villages lay around the port. All of these required protection of the lord of this land. As far as ten miles hence villages of reliable farmers depended upon him to shield them from attacks by wolves, bandits, and sometimes outside authorities. Maybe, he thought he could ward those villages individually. Would the inhabitants there be able to comprehend the need or the use of such magic? He did not know the answer.

He looked for Bishop Elfred in the parish and in the lofty sanctuary of the cool church. He could not find him—the one man who might have the answers to his anxious questions. Perhaps he could talk to some of the villagers. He might even drop in at the manor of his cousin Sarah and ask for her council. The more he thought about this he liked the idea. Her manor lay just beyond the farthest village in his estates. Her piece of property (the property that now belonged to him after the passing of his cousin Allanar) marked the southern border.

In the dusty road beyond the outer wall Bishop Elfred stood talking to the wife of the tavern owner. His horse stood pawing the dry earth and nodding his head as if in answer to the couple's urgent conversation. With a smile in Godric's direction the woman broke off with a bid of goodnight to the bishop.

"Old friend," the bishop turned and called as Godric approached. "How goes your school?"

"Well, I think," Godric replied. He could not hide the thin line his lips were pressed into, signifying a worry stirring in him. It was not lost on the bishop who had known him since infancy. "I go to my cousin, Sarah's house on business. If you do not have any plans to the contrary I would have your company on the ride out."

The bishop nodded eagerly. "Madam," he called to the woman he had just been conversing with. "Might we beg of you an extra horse?" The woman nodded and disappeared around the back of the tavern where the barn stood. "To save the time of walking," the bishop explained with a wink to Godric.

The bishop on his own horse and Godric on the larger plough horse borrowed from the tavern they set off with the walled Christchurch a dark shadow backlit by the setting sun. The vespers finished ringing with an echo when they saw the other horse trotting at a tired pace in the growing evening ahead of them.

Godric peered into the shadowy east where the sun had vanished and saw two small riders. They were dwarfed in comparison to the enormous workhorse they rode. As the bishop's and Godric's horses' hoof beats stopped and the horses stood still at the behest of their burdens, the taller of the two figures they watched slid from the saddle and hit the earth hard.

Godric thrust his heel urgently into the steed and tore off after the figure on the dark horizon. The bishop followed more warily behind.

Isaiah stood for a moment and breathed in every aspect of the tableau in front of him. Thomas, bloodied down his brown doublet, face pale, rested his head against the chest of his lord, Aaron. Aaron, sword dropped to his side, lay in a small pool of his own blood as it eschewed from a rent in his side just under his ribs on the left side. Both of the men had knuckles bloody and broken. They had made a good fight before a brave end. "Here is a noble fellowship of death," he muttered. The sound of footsteps belonging to two people approaching him from behind was not lost to him. He bent slowly to one knee as if to pray for the departed. He reached slowly and subtly for Aaron's sword that lay to the right of his bent knee. Squeezing the hilt between his own tired and battle-marked fingers he rose swiftly and spun on his heel swinging the blade in an arc fast over his shoulder. It met the enemy blade with a crash above their heads.

He met the eyes of his father's pupil and his own former schoolmate, Faramir.

Quickly dropping his blade, the metallic zing as it slid down the length of Faramir's own blade to the ground was the only sound between them. Isaiah looked over Faramir's shoulder and saw his sister, Isaidore's anxious face as it glanced over his wounded brow.

"You should not have come," Isaiah said sternly, glaring at young Faramir as he sheathed Aaron's discarded weapon. Faramir replaced his weapon in scabbard as well. "You should not have brought her."

Isaidore stepped between the two and answered, "It is I who brought him, Isaiah. Azria and Mungo have come as well. I should fetch them to attend to your wound, brother."

"No," Isaiah said quickly. He moved aside so that the two may see the picture of heroic death he had been admiring. "I do not think it wise that either of them see this." He moved toward the birch and lifted Aaron away from the trunk. "Faramir, help me to lay them out properly."

Without a word Faramir moved to Isaiah's side and lifted Thomas in his arms spreading him out under the tree they had been resting against. Isaiah laid Aaron next to him. "Here were two good men," Faramir said under his breath. His eyes lingered on them for a moment.

"Come," Isaiah said, stirring him from his solitary reverie. "Give us charitable license," he continued, crossing himself; Faramir followed his direction and Isaidore as well, "that we may wander o'er the bloody field to book our dead and then to bury them."

He walked quickly in the direction of the collective fray. Bodies were strewn in the most awkward positions. Bodies fell and were trampled, more carcasses were piled on top of these. Some peasants close by had come already to wander and search as well—some for bodies and others for whatever else the dead may have to offer.

Faramir stopped one of these scavengers and asked about the Ravenclaws. The scavenger answered favorably to a description of Theoderic. He mumbled, "Thrice within the hour I saw him down, thrice up again and fighting. From helmet to the spur, all blood he was."

Isaiah looked to Faramir and nodded; an accurate description it was of Theoderic.

"In which array does he lie, brave soldier?" Isaiah asked. The flattery was not lost on the scavenger who puffed his chest out with pride. "I fought next to him," the man lied. "He tore off that way after the English."

Faramir and Isaiah turned and headed in that direction, exchanging dark looks.

The small class filed out and eventually dispersed themselves in all directions. Salazar appraised his pupils as they fled to the last of the warm sunlight and wondered how many of them would receive the bells and bandolier of his trade, finally taking the Necromancer's Oath. Not many, he frowned in thought.

He turned to the raised dais and began to collect his papers.

"Does this book contain what it seems to?" Eowyn's voice chimed behind him before he even heard her footfalls.

Salazar stood and saw that she waited at the door. No woman was permitted inside this class without his permission. It was not the trade of a woman. Eowyn had been an assistant to him on many occasions, collecting equipment, arranging texts, but she had never been allowed to learn, though he was in no doubt that she would excel.

He beckoned her forward with his finger.

Eowyn seemed honored to be allowed admittance, as if she were being initiated into that great secret society of the Knights Templar. He gave here one small thought. If she proved in the time to come to be loyal to him unto death even, she may yet earn the rights and privileges heretofore only awarded to the men of the magical realm. The thought warmed his heart. She was far better than a man, better than a woman. She carried a loyalty to him alone that left her free of attachment to nearly everything else. She would soon be pushed into a decision that might even test her last attachment to anyone but her father. Would she also be willing to betray her brother?

"Perhaps more than it seems, my dear," Salazar answered. He glanced at the finished copy in parchment and the velum original in his daughter's ink-stained grasp. "Is it complete?"

"As complete as the original," Eowyn replied, handing the copy to her father. "What Eomer thinks and knows to be, and what he writes down may prove to be separate. I will return this to his cell." Eowyn turned to go and Salazar looked to the copied parchment, rifling through it as a cursory check of her work.

Eowyn turned and favored him with an uncertain glance. "Will the abbot make good on his threats, father?"

Salazar frowned and felt his heart sink a little. "Not likely," he answered gently. "He talks, but there is rarely anything behind it. He is the least of my worries." He was disappointed with Eowyn's concern. Whether it be for her brother's safety or in doubt of her father's power over the abbot, it did not voice the confidence in her that he had hoped for.

Eowyn nodded and clasped the book to her chest, drawing her cloak around her. She looked at him one last time, doubt painting her face with a dark expression, and pulled her hood up to veil her face. Salazar looked back at the pages and did not notice her sidestep into the hall to permit another guest's entry. When he heard footsteps again he almost called for Eowyn to leave him be. As he looked up he choked the words down and glared impatiently at the woman walking brusquely across the room, closing the distance between them in some hurry. Apparently his protocol could not be exercised upon everyone.

"Tell me plainly, Salazar," Helga said without greeting. Her face was flushed and her hair was falling untidily into her face, her linen head cloth was slipping away from her forehead, "has anyone returned from the wars?" She clasped her hands in front of her and stood boldly waiting for an answer. If it were not for the slight trembling in her hands and face he would have thought her a very powerful force. She was, however, nothing so powerful to him.

He took his time, looking away from her, placing the precious copy of his son's findings in a leather satchel with his other things. Finally he looked up and said, "I know not. But I know this: it would serve all justice if you, Rowena and Godric lost your gallant sons. It was not their fight to meddle in."

"If not theirs, than whose, my dear Salazar," Helga said slowly with a deliberate edge to her words.

Salazar took in her beauty and her trepidation, scanning her from the floor to her golden crown of hair. He could not pass the thought from his head that he had sacrificed Verina and her love for this. He felt no love or duty to her. He could only detect the feeling of distaste that was swelling into a dull, aching hatred.

"Tell me, Helga," he began slowly, moving his eyes over her still. He could tell it made her uncomfortable and did not stop appraising her. "How will our demise befall us? You have the gift of seeing what has not yet come to pass. Will this end badly for all of us?" he locked eyes with her and sensed that she desperately wanted to look away. She did finally.

She turned her face from him and looked to the floor. "I am haunted by many visions. But my sight has become cloudy."

"So why do you come to me?" he asked, taking a calculated step toward her like a predatory cat testing the resolve of its prey. "Do you love me, Helga? Do you ache to be near me?" He came to stand directly in front of her. She still kept her head turned from him. He would not be permitted to touch her lips. He settled instead to graze his lips against her neck, moving a hand to brush her hair and the linen drape from his face. He lifted his chin and rested his lips on her ear. Softly he whispered, "We could be invincible together. Ally with me and we shall have no more cloud covered days and years. We will have everything. I can give you everything."

"What can you give me?" Helga asked breathlessly. "What will you promise me that I would want?"

"Me," Salazar answered simply. "You want me. I feel your desire for me radiating from you. You are all too obvious, my darling." He felt her shudder as he lifted a hand to her waist moving slowly upward. "I feel your heart racing when I touch you." His hand came to rest at her heart, rising and falling with her breathing. "You can lie to me, Helga. But you cannot fool me. Surely you did not think you could?" He laughed mockingly, pulling away from her, delighting in the way she leaned after him, an unsatisfied glint momentarily catching in her eyes.

He collected his leather satchel and walked past her.

"This dance we do is killing both of us, Salazar," she cried after him.

He turned the corner. His answer coming faintly after her, "No. It kills all of us, my dear."

Helga turned and stared after him, blinking back tears. She wiped them away quickly and shook her head as if to dislodge thoughts that she would not want to clutter her mind. She lifted her chin and walked defiantly from the room in the opposite direction that Salazar had gone.

They were just children. The small girl with matted braids sat upon the giant workhorse with a wide-eyed expression of confusion and surprise. The boy had fallen from the back of the animal. As Godric rode up, pulling back on the reins of his borrowed steed, he saw the large wound splitting the boy's forehead to his left ear. He leapt from the horse and knelt at the side of the fallen child. The boy was unconscious but still drew breath. Godric lifted him quickly from the ground and turned to the bishop as he came to a halt behind Godric's horse.

Godric hoisted the boy's limp frame upon the bishop's saddle in front of his knees. He then turned to the girl on the large horse's back. "What has happened, young one?" Godric demanded.

The frightened child looked at him, eyes growing wider. "He is hurt," the girl said in a small, high voice.

"Why have you come?" Godric asked, looking to the bishop, alarm on his face that mirrored the girl's.

"There has been trouble in our village. Mama sent us to you to warn you. Will you help them? They are dying!" the girl pleaded, working herself up into a fit of hysteria.

"Who dies?" Godric asked, quickly reaching up and pulling the small girl from the bare back of the tired animal. He carried her also to the bishop's horse and handed her to him, situating her behind him on the saddle. The bishop pulled her arms around him and closed her fingers around the belt of his tunic, whispering to her to hang on tightly.

"The soldiers kill everyone, burn everything. Can you help mama?" the girl pleaded, tears streaking her dirty face.

Godric ran to the huffing horse that they had ridden and threw his rope to the bishop. "Take these children to my home. Sound the alarm and empty all of the fields. Bar the gates once everyone is safely relocated within them.

"But my lord," the bishop said, hesitating. His horse sidestepped impatiently and the mare he led behind them whinnied. "I cannot close off the city until you have returned."

"Do it! And with haste. Lock the gate," Godric ordered, jumping to mount his plough horse and turning to instruct the bishop. "I will find my own way." He dug his heels into the beast once more and bolted in the direction of the farthest village on his estate.

The horse's flanks heaved and the animal became sweaty and began to slow before they reached the village. Godric could see the tall plume of smoke. He knew that the raid would be well finished before he would arrive. He cursed the horse that bore him and wished for his own fine Apollonius. With one hand holding and reining the animal he reached for the sack at his hip with the other. He had one ward stone with him, the one that he had brought to show his cousin, whom he was riding to seek council with. It was Purbeck marble. The same marble quarried from this land for their beloved school. By the same token he cursed not having brought the others with him. He had carried four of these stones with him on his journey from Greenhill to Christchurch. Three of them lay covered in a cloth at the foot of the bed that his daughter rested in. He would have to hunt for stones out here to replace them. He certainly could not go back for them. Time was too costly now for such things.

As he neared the village the road became increasingly littered with corpses of men and women. Carcasses of horses and hogs lay burning in the fields. Godric slowed his horse, replacing the precious ward stone in his sack. He scanned the horizon. Nothing moved.

Leaping heavily to the ground he left the tired animal where it was. It would not wander. It was too exhausted.

Godric passed a hand over his brow. He was sweating.

Vapor from the many huts and cottages on fire mingled with smoke and created a haze over the decimated farming land. All of the crops, animals and people who lived here were gone. Many lay on the roads and fields, struck down as they tried to flee the danger. It was a danger that he, as their feudal lord, was sworn to protect them from. They provided him with possession, wealth and food. All they had asked in return was protection that it was his first duty to provide.

He knelt next to a fallen villager, a man carrying a hayfork. There was a metal-headed spear lodged between his ribs. His other hand was stretched out ahead of him as if beckoning to someone. Godric followed the hand and looked further into the distance where a boy lay, his throat savagely cut, nearly severing his head from body.

Godric thought about Isabelle asleep at his home in the walled city.

He stood and stumbled down the dusty road a little further into the village's center. There was a group of soldiers in scarlet and gold, so close to resembling his own scouts, lying dead. A hearty man, one Godric had known by reputation—the blacksmith lay with a hammer in his beaten and bloody hand. He had lain waste to five of the king's men before being subdued himself. "Brave man," Godric said.

So it was the king who perpetrated this folly on his people? Godric had no time to puzzle over the explanation of such an act. He was definitely up against a greater force than mere bandits. It was as he suspected. The king had bent his will against Godric and the rest of his kind. The city will not fall! Godric thought to himself, rising from the side of the blacksmith quickly. I will not let him have my city, nor anyone who takes shelter within her!

He passed several beaten women, retracing his steps to his horse, all of whom he wondered which was the mother of the poor children messengers.

Suddenly he felt eyes upon him. Grabbing the reins of the large nag, Godric jumped back into the saddle and made for the quarry beyond the village at the border of his land. There was no more time. He could not fight off every soldier that had come onto his vast estate. But if he could set up his ward system he could hem them in and with God's divine grace hold them off until he could crush them. He had to crush him. He had so much faith to earn back from his people. Never could he have failed them as he did now.

"Wallace is taken," Theoderic said, finally emerging from the direction of the setting sun. Galahad sat up from his spot under a shade tree and then stood to greet his brother.

"You have seen him? You are certain?" came Galahad's rushed words. "Is it possible?"

Theoderic nodded gravely. "There is no more hope. The nobles had sold him before the battle. Edward's offered more lands and false titles. They were bought even before they rode into battle alongside of us."

Galahad crossed himself and prayed to Saint Patrick. "God be merciful on our friend," he finished.

"God may, but the king will not be," Theoderic said. Something on the road had caught his attention. He moved closer to see who was approaching.

"Enemy soldiers?" Galahad asked standing next to his brother and peering in that direction.

Theoderic shook his head. "No, I do not think it is the enemy. One of them is a woman."

"It is Azria," said Galahad, astonished. He ran to her, hefting his sword's tip from the ground and sheathing the weapon.

"Mungo is with her. I wonder at their coming," Theoderic said under his breath.

"Dear friends, you have been safely delivered from the fray," Mungo cried in relief, grasping Galahad's outstretched hand.

"The day is not ours," Theoderic replied grimly, bowing slightly to Azria and grasping Mungo's hand in turn.

Galahad lead them to the main field of battle where the ground lay littered with men dead, struggling, and some clinging moment's before death.

"Have the holy brothers come yet to give these men their rites?" Mungo asked, turning quickly from the field to Galahad with concern. "Nay, I know not. It would appear none but scavengers have come yet."

"I set to my task, then," Mungo answered moving off into the bloodied crowd of men. Many that could pull themselves inched closer to him, climbing and clawing over the dead and severely wounded. Mungo soon became entrenched in dying men and was not bothered by those that grabbed and tugged at his robes, begging him for their last rites, or for him to end their suffering. He calmly set to his duties and systematically worked through the carpet of humanity.

"I shall see to that injury, Theoderic, and then I help my brother," Azria said indicating a sizeable gash at the back of his calf that caused a limp.

"It is not deep. See to the dying first, if you will."

Azria smiled in reply and moved in the direction of Mungo, kneeling next to a boy with an arrow wound.

Galahad and Theoderic looked across the expanse of carnage. Galahad breathed deeply. "The day is not ours," he repeated Theoderic's words. "And we have lost our shepherd." He turned to his brother. "Is our cause at an end? Is Scotland at her end?"

"I do not know, brother," Theoderic answered without looking at Galahad.

"Where do we go from this point? What is there from this moment?" Galahad asked with a deep sigh.

Thedoeric broke his eyes from the field ahead of him. "There is honor in life or death. Come with me to free Wallace or die in the effort."

Galahad's face broke into a hopeful grin and followed his brother limping off of the field and into the western light of evening.

"You there, my lady," a voice shouted behind Isaidore.

She started slightly and then stood from Aaron's body and turned. There was a messenger in a brown tunic looking coldly down on her.

"You have business with me, sir?" Isaidore asked, baffled. She moved closer to the man's heaving steed.

"I have business with Lord Aaron of Hufflepuff. A message I deliver from his aunt in Wilton." The messenger looked from her to the men she attended. "Do you know him?"

"Sadly, yes," Isaidore answered. "He is here. What is Lady Verina's message?"

The messenger looked for a minute as if he would not tell her. Then he shifted and said, "Are you connected with that family."

"Yes," Isaidore lied. "I am his sister, Azria. Verina is my aunt as well."

The messenger nodded and then handed down a roll of parchment to her.

Isaidore moved quickly forward and unrolled the page. She read the script quickly. "She has seen soldiers moving south from the river toward Christchurch. She foresees danger." Isaidore looked up expectantly to the impatient man.

"May I prevail upon you to take me to my companions?" she asked breathlessly.

He held a hand out for her pulling her onto the saddle behind him and wheeling his horse. "I never deny the will of a beautiful lady."

Isaidore ignored the comment and pointed in the direction Isaiah and Faramir had gone. The messenger tore off toward the road, gravel flying behind the hooves of his mare.

She saw the scavenger birds before the horse had cleared the stand of trees that blocked the killing field from her view. Isaidore had seen dead men. There were plenty in the place where Aaron and Thomas had been killed. But such a mass of limbs and groaning she had never before imagined.

The messenger said an oath and spurred his horse forward. Azria and Mungo were to one side of the field, bloodied and busy with the task of saving as many as they could. Azria held the hand of an English knight as Mungo pulled the arrow from his thigh.

Isaidore pointed them out to the rider and he turned his horse in their direction.

Faramir and Isaiah appeared from the stand of trees, staring at the horse and two riders, hands to the hilts of their weapons.

Isaidore jumped from the mare before the messenger could help her down and ran to them. "Azria!" she called.

The red-haired woman pushed herself to her feet and shaded her eyes, looking toward Isaidore.

"She is Azria?" the messenger called after her.

Isaidore waved him off and he shrugged, turning his horse and passing in front of Isaiah and Faramir before bolting off to other business, no longer concerned with this scene.

"Isaidore," Isaiah called, running after her with Faramir behind him. "What has happened?"

She did not answer but passed the role of parchment into Azria's stained hands. She only turned when he had grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. "I told you to stay with Aaron," he raged.

"Aaron?" Azria said, lifting her eyes from the parchment. "Have you seen my brother?"

Mungo, after making the wounded enemy knight comfortable, stood at his sister's side and looked expectantly to Isaidore as well.

"He is dead, Azria. I am sorry. He is with Thomas who is also dead at the edge of the forest just beyond that wood," Isaidore replied guiltily. She turned to Isaiah and spoke quickly. "I have just had this message from Verina at Wilton who has seen Edward's soldiers. She saw them make toward Christchurch. She suspects they will besiege our father's land.

"Azria," Isaiah said. "Where have Theoderic and Galahad gone?"

"They have headed into the west. They look for Wallace, I believe." Azria handed her aunt's message to Isaiah and leaned on Mungo's arm for support. She looked very pale after hearing of Aaron.

"Mungo," Isaiah commanded. "How long will you be until you have finished here?"

Mungo surveyed his situation. "I could be only two days if I work through the night."

"Isaidore will assist you and Azria. When you have finished return to the school and inform them there whither we have gone. If Theoderic and Galahad return send them to us. Send any of my father's men at the school to us as well."

Mungo nodded and Isaiah turned beckoning Faramir to follow.

Isaidore turned to Mungo. "What shall I do?" she asked.

Mungo turned to the wounded knight again and took one of his arms and pulled him to his feet. "Help me to move him," he answered.

Azria said a quick prayer of protection for Isaiah and Faramir and turned back to the task.

Salazar was with the surveyor plotting the mill's future situation along the river when the messenger arrived. Plods of earth rose and fell quickly away from the hooves of the swift animal as the rider pulled fiercely on its reins. It reared up mere feet before colliding with the two men.

The surveyor ducked and moved to one side. Salazar stood in his place, staring at the messenger with cold indifference.

Without a word a sealed roll of parchment was handed down to him and the horse was made to wheel bearing the rider quickly to another destination.

Salazar looked down and noticed the seal of the abbey at Wilton. He broke it and unfolded the two sheets. Unsurprisingly it was a letter from Verina.

"Excuse me. I have urgent business," Salazar said abruptly and left the surveyor alone on the grounds.

He unfolded Verina's letter again once in the shade of the school.

He read:

_Salazar dearest,_

_ I know it is you who are to blame for what my eyes witness today. At dawn I rose to walk along the river. Twice before I stole away from the convent to the water's edge I thought of packing my things and returning to you. I will not entertain the thought further. I am done with you. You have betrayed your friends as you have betrayed me. You gave yourself to Edward just as you gave yourself to Helga. _

_ I was passed today by five hundred soldiers of Edward's vast force. It is not coincidence that they come into this part of the country and I know that it is you who have sent them here. It was not you that gave the order, I know, but it is just as well. _

_ I cannot love a man who will turn on his brethren and on his friends. You have given all of us up to the king for the slaughter. An excessive gift to show your loyalty. May you be rewarded for your noble sacrifice. They are headed to __Christchurch__. I saw it all in dream. You have bent Edward's scorn toward Godric. I inform you know, as soldiers march toward his home that he has taken his youngest child with him. Now you may add her to your list of wronged innocents that grows ever longer. If she dies, heaven forbid it!, in this fray, be it on you. _

_ We all go down with this ship while you, rat, save yourself and swim to shore. Oh! Valliant knight of Slytherin, I say well done! _

_ Furthermore, do not come to me. I stay at the convent as will your child when it is born. I do not wish it to know you. If I see you I will not know you either, for you are not the same person to me. That man who came to the chapel as I knelt and prayed, swearing oaths to me—he is dead. _

_ With the messenger I also send word to Lord Aaron and his men of the fate of __Christchurch__. Godric's men at the school will fight for him as well. If there were more that I could do with what power I have to stop you I would. _

_ I bid you luck in your future endeavors and goodbye,_

_ Verina_

Salazar finished the letter, read it one more time and crushed the pages between his fingers. He was stung, wounded and furious. He felt a dizzying unreality descend upon him. He would think on her personal attacks another day. There were more urgent matters vying for his attention at present.

He reentered the violent light of the outdoors and felt slightly disoriented.

A young girl in a linen head cloth, carrying water passed him.

"Girl," he called to her. She set the bucket down promptly and came to stand in front of him.

"Sire?" she said with an officious bow.

"Fetch me the steward of the school," he commanded. Watching her race off impatiently, he paced for some time and then stopped one of his own guards near the river to summon ten of his men.

The girl came back shortly afterward with a chubby man that was huffing with great show, as if to let Salazar know how he had rushed straight here.

He waved the girl off and she returned to her bucket and disappeared into the inner bailey to the kitchens.

"Is the guard of Gryffindor here?" Salazar asked without ceremony.

"Some have left to enter into Wallace's service at special request of Master Godric himself, but many of the tournament school remain, sire," the steward replied with a low bow.

Salazar nodded. "Lord Gryffindor just sent me word to ready them. His lands are under challenge of the king. Gather them at the outer stable. I will brief them in an hour." He turned to his own estate then hesitated. "Make sure everyone of them are present," he said finally. The steward left in the opposite direction and crossed over the bridge.

Salazar met with the head of his guard and the ten men that had been summoned. The dark room was all green and silver surcoats. His men would not fail to carry out their orders. They came from a stock wholly different from the pure and noble Gryffindor creed.

"A trap has been perpetrated upon my loyal friend, Lord Gryffindor. There is a snake among his lion hearts. I have gathered his men in the outer stable. I have had them questioned and found them guilty. Your orders are to bar the door and burn the structure." Salazar gave the order for many deaths as if he were ordering a special subtlety for the evening's feast.

His head of guard shifted uneasily. "And it was the Lord Gryffindor who gave this order upon his own men?" he asked.

"He is besieged in his own city. He cannot act. I am acting for him. I command you to do my will which is his will."

"As you wish, my lord," the head of the guard said bowing. The ten behind him bowed as well. They left Salazar standing outside of the gate to his estate. It was many minutes before Salazar found the telltale plumage of smoke on the horizon that he had been anxiously waiting for.

Godric was unsure how much this beast of his could endure. He needed to get to as many villages as he could, get to the quarry and, if needs be, outrun enemy troops.

The sweaty nag looked doubtful, but there was no other option. The animal had to go the distance. The house of his cousin came into view, unscathed. It had been passed up by the raiding soldiers—or perhaps they had not arrived yet. This thought made Godric spur the horse into a faster gallop, pushing it to its limit. "Come on old girl, just a bit further."

He slowed as he neared the wall. Inside its shade he saw his cousin, Sarah kneeling in tilled soil. She was gardening, unaware that her household was situated in the midst of great danger.

"Godric?" she said, looking up at him in surprise. "How is it that you have come so far to visit, and on such a wretched beast?" She called the boy at her stables for water to give the heaving horse.

Sarah was older than Godric but possessed the youthfulness of those that are magical. She had always kept herself in excellent health. Her family, Godric's family was one of warriors. Sarah was not an exception. Even now, when gardening, she wore her hair tight but without a head cloth, though she was a widow. She wore the breeches and tunic of a man and hunted annually with Godric and his men. Godric had a suspicion that Rose did not like her for her manliness.

"I have not the time to explain everything to you, Sarah. You must come with me. You are in danger here. And furthermore, I require your assistance. We must take two horses with us. Let the others free before the raiders come." At the mention of them, Godric went to the gate and checked the road again. It was clear for the moment.

"Whither shall we go, cousin?" Sarah asked pulling on her riding gloves and taking her leather wrist guard from her belt and tying it to her left wrist.

"To the quarry," Godric answered slapping his tired horse on its hindquarters and watching it set off toward the winding Avon.

"The quarry?" Sarah questioned, favoring Godric with a look of incomprehension.

"Are there others in the house?" he asked, ignoring her questions.

Sarah shook her head. "My staff and my dog. No one else."

"I will get our horses. Let the other animals and your staff make for the woods. Tell them to be hasty. Leave everything else behind. The king's soldiers will be on the roads now. They have ransacked the village." He indicated with a finger the dark smoke against the darkening night sky.

"Have you any stone lying about?" he asked a moment later, when Sarah reemerged with her bow and a quiver of arrows.

"The servants are setting everything to rights. The house will be deserted in half an hour," Sarah said without hearing him.

"Stone, Sarah!" Godric called.

Sarah shrugged, "Pull up a paving stone I guess. What would I need to keep spare stone for?"

Godric went into the garden and kicked at one of the medium sized slabs of marble with his heel. He grunted loudly with the effort and pulled the stone from its resting place. He pulled out the ward stone he had carried with him and a dagger from his belt. Sarah watched on curiously, strapping the quiver of arrows over her shoulder and tying the points at her waist.

Godric carved rudimentary symbols, runes, into the stone, paying close attention to copy them precisely as they appeared on the original stone.

When he was finished he let the stone fall and took Sarah's spade that she had discarded in the garden and began to dig a hole.

Distracted by the prospect of a skirmish she raced back inside and hefted her dead husband's sword. Tying the scabbard to her belt she came back out into the garden where Godric was chanting silently over the carved stepping stone and lowering it into the hole three feet in diameter and at least four feet deep. She came to stand beside him and helped to kick earth back into the hole, stomping on it impatiently until it resembled nothing more than another spot of tilled ground.

"Everyone has left." Sarah mounted her horse and handed the reins of Godric's fresh steed to him. He tucked the ward stone into its leather pouch and mounted his horse, wheeling it violently and racing out of the gate after Sarah. They kept close to the forest and stayed off the road. Should anyone happen to come over the rise, they would have time to hide among the forest's underbrush.

They would reach the quarry in about an hour Godric estimated, pushing his horse, a younger sleeker mare now.

There was no one on the road. He constantly kept watch over it while he also kept his distance from it. Looking over his shoulder to check on his cousin, Godric found her lips curled into a smile. She was enjoying herself. Had it not been his lands, his family, his mistake, he would probably find the prospect of taking on Edward's forces exuberating as well.

As he thought this he heard the hoof beats of his horse and his cousin's multiply. He had been scanning the distance ahead of himself vigilantly, but checked his rear less often. Now he pulled up the reins of his animal, grinding to a halt on the soft forest floor. Sarah stopped behind him and pulled her bow from her shoulder, reaching behind her for an arrow to thread it with. She took aim against the rise behind them and loosed her arrow before more than the soldier's head was visible over the hill. The trajectory of the weapon was true. The scout toppled from his horse and fell motionless, his horse tearing off sideways and turning back the way it came. Four more scouts cleared the rise.

Godric wheeled his horse and tore off faster toward the quarry, Sarah behind him, bow on her shoulder, tying her reins to the horn of her saddle. She slipped her bow back down into her hands and pulled another arrow from her quiver, turning from her waist still seated on her galloping steed, she loosed another arrow with the prayer, "Artemis, make my arrows accurate. God, my Father, conduct the souls of the fallen to your kingdom."

Her second arrow did not stray. It hit a soldier in the shoulder and brought him down.

She quickly threaded her bow and took aim again, her horse swerving and causing her to lose balance. She toppled sideways into her saddle, holding on to one stirrup to save herself. A soldier in scarlet and gold had charged her horse while she was turned taking aim at another. The horse swerved and Godric caught the enemy scout between the shoulders, driving his blade deep within the man's back.

Sarah looked behind her and saw her bow lying on the ground, soldiers closing the space between them. "Now or never," she breathed to herself, digging her heel in behind her horse's ear. It gave a loud whinny and she pulled the reins to turn the horse about. Still hanging in the saddle she charged the three remaining scouts, hearing Gordic's horse sucking in breath and blowing it out fiercely as it ran beside her. She looked up sideways and saw his sword raised outward from his arm and his teeth bared like an animal on the attack. Her bow was in reach and she let go of the reins to bring her closer to the ground. Her knee was still around the horn of her saddle and she was upside down dangling from her horse. Reaching out, she scooped her weapon up in one hand and with the other pulled the reins and a bit of her stallion's mane, hoisting herself back into her seat. She squeezed the horse's ribs with her thighs and wheeled again in the direction of the quarry. It was in sight. But for whatever purpose Godric intended them to go there, she was sure that bringing Edward's soldiers along was not part of that plan.

She looked behind her and Godric was parrying a blow from one of the soldiers, they had engaged in hand-to-hand on horseback. Sarah smiled. That style of fighting favored her cousin. She looked to the two remaining scouts. One seemed anxious to follow her and decided to outnumber Godric. Sarah stopped her horse and took careful aim. She caught him in the throat but he remained in the saddle, his horse now directionless, carried the man toward the river. Just as well, Sarah thought, watching him while she threaded another arrow into her bow; he will be dead before they reach the water.

She loosed the next arrow and watched as it lodged itself into the thigh of Godric's attacker. He looked down at the arrow and with and angry cry, wheeled away from Godric and after her. She drew him away from Godric and began to thread another arrow. Before she could loose this one at her pursuer he dropped from his animal sputtering bloody oaths. Falling face forward she saw Godric sword sticking straight out of his spine.

Godric raced after him and leaned forward in his saddle bending over and disengaging his weapon from its victim. One more scout was on his trail.

She thought Godric would try to outrun him but he surprised her. He stopped, turning his horse perpendicular to his pursuer. It was too sudden a move for the scout to turn. He would collide with Godric and his horse—her horse. At the last moment Godric held his sword in front of him, using it as a spear. The blade sunk deep into the neck and shoulders of the enemy animal. The rider was thrown from the beast as it fell to the ground as well. Tearing his sword from the wound of the dead horse Godric turned on the scout. He inched backward; his leg was broken. Godric moved deliberately after him.

"Why are you here?" Godric asked, lifting his blade above his head.

The soldier stared apprehensively at the blade glinting as it caught the early night's moon rays and his bloody lips trembled as he answered, "Edward sent us to scourge the wicked."

"And the wicked are scourged," Godric answered him, bringing the blade down on him, crushing his ribs, finding and piercing the man's heart.

He climbed back into his saddle and took off after Sarah. "Make for the cave of the quarry. The faster we find shelter the safer." He slapped his mare on the hindquarters with his bloody sword and rode toward the rock face.

The servant girl, Claire, did not like the malevolent glint in Master Salazar Slytherin's eyes as he ordered the steward to round up Lord Gryffindor's men. She carried the water around the bailey wall and then listened very carefully once out of sight. She peeked, half-hidden by the wall and half so by the linen head cloth she wore. She guessed his plans even before he called for his own head of guard. She had only an hour to act.

Dropping the bucket she ran to the hall next to the kitchen. Some of the apartments above this were assigned to the tournament school. Her brother's chamber was among them. As she guessed when she climbed the stairs and pushed at the door, it was not locked. Her brother was too trustful of everyone to ever think of employing a lock.

She fell to her knees hurriedly at the foot of his modestly clothed bed and threw open a trunk that rested there. It housed all of his possessions. Mostly these were weapons. One was a dagger that her father had saved to get him when he had advanced from the riding school into one of the coveted tournament school positions. There were also a few articles of clothing; most of them were wrapping the precious implements of war and sport that seemed so dear to him. She selected a sword and set it carefully beside her. Next she unraveled several other weapons replacing them in the chest and dropping the clothing on top of the sword. Next she withdrew a belt and wound it around the bundle. She closed the trunk when she was satisfied with what she had taken from it and then moved quickly to the bedside. She looked at the spare set of boots sitting there and examined her own feet. They would be too big. The last thing she needed was to have attention drawn to her clumsy oversized costume. She decided to forego the too large shoes and fished under the bedstead for Faramir's crossbow. She felt a sharp point and pulled. She had uncovered a quiver of arrows for the weapon. She tossed them onto the bed and knelt, reaching under the bed once more. Finally her fingers fell upon the heavy wooden weapon. It was familiar to her. She had learned to hold the weapon properly but had never been allowed to shoot it. She shook the thought from her head as it made her stomach nervous. The crossbow was thrown onto the bed with the quiver.

Claire pulled the heavy woolen cover of the bedclothes over the weapons, moving to toss the sword and the clothing into the bundle as well. She hefted the heavy burden in her hands. It looked like the daily washing that she was accustomed to taking out in the morning. She was relieved that it looked no more conspicuous than a daily routine. But catching sight of herself in a dirty pane of window glass she halted for a moment. She had not considered what she would do with her hair. She could not wrap it, certainly. If she wanted to look accurate, like a soldier, like a man, it would have to be cut.

She took in a deep breath. She knew the penalty of cutting her hair short like a man's.

With resolve she threw off her head cloth and knelt at the trunk again. She pulled out the dagger and held it in her palm and then wrapping her fingers around it, squeezing the hilt. How many more could she save if she did this? If she was caught and punished would she regret what she was about to do? Her answer came back to her defiantly. No.

She rushed to the window again and saw the reflection of a frightened girl. Her clean linen shift and blue full apron would soon be changed for a soldier's uniform. Her long raven black hair that fell over her shoulders in untamed waves must be cut to the length of a man's. She screwed up her face and shut her eyes tight, lifting the knife to her neck. She grabbed a handful of her own hair and tugged at it making it taut, leaving no slack. She sawed at it with the dagger until her hand fell away with her hair still in it. She looked at herself in the window and gained courage from the defiant reflection staring back at her. She resembled her own brother more than she realized.

She cut the rest quickly now and evened out the frayed ends. She was still young looking, but more convincing now, anyway.

She threw the dagger on top of the now unclothed bed and covered her head again with her head cloth, expertly tucking the ends so that her hair would remain hidden. Claire hefted her disguise and exited the room.

She passed a boy her age, presumably a page under Lord Gryffindor's tutelage.

"You there, sir," Claire said, stopping the boy.

"Yes," the boy answered with hauteur when he realized he was being addressed by a maid.

"How much will you ask of me for your boots," Claire asked, afraid that she sounded obvious.

"My boots?" the boy asked, glancing at his feet and then back to her. He appraised her. She hoped she did not look as desperate as she really was. Finally he answered, "I will give them to you for a kiss."

Claire hesitated. Here was another compromising situation she would have to overcome to help many. This was the reputation of maids. She knew what was generally thought of her kind. But Claire was beyond reproach. She had never entertained the thought of giving in to the will of a man. Like many, she had been approached in dark hallways or on an empty staircase, but she had always politely and successfully spurned the advances of men. She felt her moral foundations waver. As she nodded, she reminded herself that many men would die if she did not consent.

She set her bundle carefully to the side, always mindful to keep the blade from clanking against the stone floor. When she returned her eyes to the boys face he was grinning hungrily.

She folded her hands in front of her and leaned forward pecking him on his lips. When she pulled quickly away he grabbed her waist and pulled her bodily into him. He turned her back into the wall and held her there between himself and the stone. The boy's hands were free now and roaming over her, exploring and groping. He pushed his lips violently into hers and knocked her head against the stone behind her. She felt his fingers moving up into her head cloth concealing her short hair. She stopped him just before he had ripped the linen cloth away. He settled instead on employing his hands moving down her skirt and pulling it up, slipping them under its hem. When his fingers coldly grazed her thigh she decided to end the game.

Claire pushed him gently away, flirtatiously and giggled. She bent to pick up her load and felt his hand exploring her bottom through her clothes. She stood and waved a finger at him. "I will be late to the laundry. You must let me leave. But wait for me. I will be back this evening."

He grinned and pulled her closer, kissing her neck.

"Your shoes now, if you will, darling," Claire said.

He kicked them off and then handed them to her. "You will bring them back to me tonight?" he asked hopefully. "I sleep in the outer stable."

Not tonight, Claire thought, all urgency coming back to her. "Depend upon it," she said, fleeing with her ill gotten boots. She tried to affect a walk of unconcern. She found herself, however, focusing on the corner around which she could hide from him as she felt his eyes on her. She rushed to that bend in the wall and then broke into a run when she had made that point. She was reminded of herself, as she deposited her bundle under an outside stair behind the kitchen and smoothed her apron as she slowed to walk inside.

She made a cursory sweep of the bailey. She still had time. There were no soldiers in the Slytherin green and silver loitering around the school yet. Picking up a flagon of wine, Claire set it on a tray and collected some pewter goblets as well. She carried these things to the outer stable, all the while scanning for even a hint of the Green Guard.

Once she had gained the shade of the low timber structure, she looked through the thick crowd of Godric Gryffindor's men, all scarlet and gold. She, being the only woman in the room, drew quite a bit of attention to herself. She found the head of the Gryffindor guard standing at the back of the room. None of the men found it unusual that all of the horses had been let out to graze when it was not custom to let them out so closed to nightfall. Several lanterns had been lit and hung along the beams. She approached and curtsied slightly, offering him the wine. He smiled and took some, shooing her away. She looked at the other men milling about before they were to be addressed. She wished now that she had already donned her disguise. But as a maid carrying wine, she knew she would not be challenged by a Slytherin guard. By the same token, she would not be listened to by a Gryffindor.

"Sir," she offered, beckoning him from his closest companions.

The tall and dark featured man seemed not to hear her and almost turned away from her to listen to an underling when he caught her motioning to him from the corner of his eye. "That will be all," he said to her finally, turning.

When she did not leave immediately he waved her off again impatiently, his hand colliding with her tray. He cried out in annoyance and cursed. Several men laughed and jeered.

Claire felt her face heat and she stooped to gather the cracked vessel and scattered goblets. When she looked up again, wiping frustrated tears from her eyes, her brother's companion from the school had knelt beside her and collected several goblets on the tray.

"I was watching you, Claire," he said in a low voice so that only she could hear him. "What are you trying to tell the head of the guard that he will not listen to?"

She hesitated, looking into his kind, hazel eyes. They felt familiar to her when she was not even feeling familiar to herself. She had never been so bold, had never needed someone to hear her more than now. And her brother's friend, Christopher, was willing to listen and to help. But she chose her words carefully. "I need him to know that you are all in danger. Lord Slytherin has set this trap. He will not come to brief you on plans to ride to the aid of Christchurch. He plans to burn the stable. I overheard him with his guard. He does not want you all to come to the aid of Godric who is besieged by the king."

"And what do you propose. You have a plan, Claire. I see it behind your eyes." Christopher was peering at her. It was hard for Claire to know if he had believed her or not.

Claire nodded, collecting more fragments of the earthenware in the pool of deep wine. "Let yourselves be drawn into this trap. Do not resist them. There will be a boy standing at this back entrance. When the Slytherin guard bars the exits and sets fire to the structure make everyone prostrate themselves. It will help them not to breathe the smoke and become light headed. When I leave with my tray, pass the word around quietly to the men. Everyone should make for the back door that my friend will be waiting to open for you."

"This is madness, Claire," Christopher said, his hazel eyes wide with astonishment.

"I have no more time to convince you. The guard comes. You must trust that I would not lead you into peril," Claire said, boldly placing her hand over his for the briefest of moments before rising with her tray and leaving through the front entrance of the stable.

She heard the muted oath of the head of the guard as she left. She saw the Slytherin guard filing into the school as she walked away, endeavoring to remain clam, without running to the kitchen where her gear was stashed.

She threw the tray away from her and dived under the stairs as she heard the group of about ten pass by the kitchen to the stable.

Claire dressed as quickly as she could, tying the sword to her belt and the crossbow to her back. She exchanged her own narrow shoes for the boy's boots and already felt transformed, mightier. She felt she had weight with men, if only in minuscule amounts, still it was more than she had had as a woman. She threw the woolen bed cover over all of these clothes giving her a degenerate appearance of a young beggar. But it served to hide the conspicuous crossbow.

She shook her short hair out and set off toward the rear of the stable at a run. Suddenly she stopped at the gate and saw another boy loitering there. He was wearing the page's uniform. "You there," she commanded in what she hoped was a man's voice. "Gather the horses that were sent to pasture in the fields. The Gryffindor guard will need them."

The boy nodded once and raced off toward the pasture.

Claire turned and sprinted toward the stable, now flanked with silver and green. Three of the ten men had torches and remained outside of the building. Two were inside, the others blocked the exits. She heard a gruff voice giving orders for a march to Christchurch. She knew it would be the stout Slytherin head guard. Slipping behind two barrels at the rear exit, now barred and blocked with two soldiers, Claire waited.

Sarah was bent adding the last of the rune carvings to the final ward stone. Three had already been placed. She could mark the area traveled by the heaving of her animal and her own sore seat. Night had nearly closed the day and nocturnal noises chorused while the soft murmurings of Godric's incantations over the eastern stone died out.

He stood quickly and wiped the soil from his hands. "Have you finished?" he asked.

Sarah nodded and blew the stone's dust from her blade. She handed it to him and looked on apprehensively as he surveyed the markings.

"You have great skills that I have been unaware of all this time," he said with a half smile. He had forgotten himself momentarily and the great haste with which they must complete the task of warding the grounds. He replaced the stone in the saddle's bag and mounted.

Sarah looked at her feet, her smile slipping from her face as well and put a foot into its harness, swinging her other over the saddle. She sat forward and dug a heel into her horse's side. They were circling around, heading north this time, the nearest border point to the port of Christchurch. She estimated quietly that this would be where they were to run into the majority of the king's men. If their plan was to succeed they were going to have to fight their way through the blockade and past the city to the northern shore. If they were successful in this, she thought with a despairing frown, it would be nearly impossible to make it back though the barricade and into the city's safe walls.

She looked to her right and saw a calculating frown on Godric's face as well. He knew the odds as well as she did. Her fingers wrapped the sleek birch of her bow tighter and she urged her horse on faster.

Galahad and Theoderic were shunted from one side to the other as the massive and angry sea of humanity swelled and eddied around them. Galahad remained vigilant, scanning the crowd. They could be recognized; he kept the thought foremost in his mind. Also with him was the thought that his brother was turning. There had been two days with which he entertained the hope of fighting through the guard set on the prisoner. Two days they had traveled just out of the sight of the entourage, every moment wondering if they would receive better conditions for an ambush. They were to have no such conditions. John Blair had met them in the city, having apparently followed his friend and his captors as well. He persuaded Galahad and Theoderic to desist. And then a light in Theoderic's eyes extinguished itself.

Galahad saw him now, his flat, resolved stare studying the planks of the platform, the sturdy wooden structure of the gallows, the ropes tied and waiting on the horse's harness. The executioner in his black garments and mask was pacing and keeping the sinister beat of the cheering crowd. He heard Blair come up behind them, pushing onlookers aside with contempt.

"He comes." Galahad heard Blair utter the words in a constrained gulp.

Slowly the crowd turned as the wheels of the cart could be heard. The attention was no longer with the executioner, but with the condemned. Galahad was now behind his brother as they turned to watch the cart's progression to the platform. Beside him Blair could be heard taking in a sharp breath.

Theoderic thrust his chin out with steely resolve.

He was not positive, but Galahad thought Wallace had looked their way and had noticed his comrades. But when he moved from behind his brother, Wallace was staring resolutely forward.

"Lord, lessen the suffering of a noble man and a brave heart," he could hear Blair muttering emotionally beside him and his stony brother. Only, Galahad was not positive that anyone had heard Blair's fervent request, least of all God.

A lower magistrate came to stand in front of a table shaped like the Christian cross, his rich robes pinned to his shoulders, billowing out regally behind him. Calling out with a loud voice, the magistrate said, "William Wallace, you have been accused of treason against the crown and are hereby sentenced to death. Do you deny the accusations?"

Wallace was being lifted to the platform, his hands and feet bound by rough, thick rope. When he gained his footing he drew himself up and faced the official. "I deny the accusations, yes," he answered. Drawing another breath, glaring at the man with one eye, the other having since swollen shut from a previous beating, Wallace continued, "I have never sworn allegiance to this king of yours."

An outraged cry came from the crowd and the magistrate theatrically waited for it to die out before speaking again.

"That matters not," the draped and haughty official replied. "He is your king." He stared at Wallace for a moment longer, poised for further argument. Wallace merely stared at him, his mouth shut, immovable against government intimidation. Suddenly the magistrate turned to the executioner and announced, "Purify this evil soul through pain. He will confess!" Standing to the side, the magistrate allowed the masked man to replace him in front of Wallace where he spun him to face the crowd jeering below him and placed the noose around his neck.

Wallace only lifted his chin defiantly and scowled.

Watching as the rope stretched from the horse to a pinion over Wallace's head, to his neck, pulling him from the ground, Galahad reflexively reached for his concealed sword. Blair caught his hand and pulled it from under his cloak.

"I cannot allow them to take our shepherd," Galahad said, holding Blair's solid gaze.

Blair answered, "So another shepherd must collect the strewn flock. We cannot risk ourselves. Wallace would tell you the same."

Galahad unclenched his fist and dropped his hand from the hilt.

The slack on the rope loosened and the prisoner was dropped hard to the wooden plank floor.

"Do you confess?" the magistrate roared over the din of the crowd around them. Wallace did not confess, but stood slowly, gasping for breath.

The magistrate nodded and said to the executioner's team, "Stretch him, then."

The rope was taken from Wallace's neck and his arms and legs were freed of their heavy bonds. To each wrist and ankle was added a new length of rope, the wrists bound to hooks along the scaffolding of the structure, the ankles attached to the harness of the plough animal. When the horse's hindquarters were slapped the horse once again fled toward the gates, stretching Wallace's limbs, his joints suffering and his wrists bleeding. His fingers gripped the rope and Galahad could see him gritting his teeth against the torment, but he did not cry out. He did not appeal for mercy. His pain was the pain of his countrymen. Galahad felt it, Theoderic felt it. It was apparent on the face of his childhood friend. Blair's eyes filled but he did not look away from the face of his companion.

Galahad swore that these fell deeds would be visited upon these men. His life would be bent toward revenge forevermore.

It was not in Wallace's power to stand of his own accord after he was dropped this second time. He was carried to the cross-shaped table, the magistrate leaning over him.

Galahad and the others, still very far from the front edge of the crowd, could hear Wallace's gasps for breath as his body revolted in blinding agony.

"I can give you mercy," the official whispered, hovering over Wallace's heaving form. "I can end all of this if you will confess your crime."

Wallace made a nodding gesture and Galahad held his breath. Wallace could not break, he thought. Surely Wallace could not break.

Then, as the magistrate was poised to hear his confession, Wallace gasped and summoned all of his strength to swell his aching body with breath and cried out, "Pro Liberate!" the sound of the cry dying out in his throat but still ringing in the ears of the crowd.

The official nodded, the executioner grabbed the sickle-like instrument from his repertoire on an adjacent table. The moans of a hungry or disgusted crowd drown the gasps of the victim and the laughter of the persecutor as the disemboweling began.

Galahad looked away, crossing himself. "Jesus Christ," he breathed.

His brother stood solidly by and bore the scene silently and stoically.

Blair was weeping behind them.

When Galahad had looked up the sickle had been replaced with the axe. The executioner had the instrument drawn back, over his head, bearing down to swing. His eyes had been fixed upon Theoderic's. Galahad turned to see his brother staring fixedly at Wallace in return. There was an unspoken oath between them.

When the axe had fallen Wallace breathed his last.

Galahad and Theoderic had already left the city and began their journey home when Wallace's body had been torn to pieces and sent to the corners of the kingdom.

Claire, crouched behind two barrels, silently flung her covering from her shoulders and withdrew from the quiver across her back an arrow, threading it into the crossbow. She looked up to note the progression of the two men barring the back entrance of the outer stable. Lifting the weapon. Claire took aim and launched the arrow at one of the Slytherin guards who went down quickly grasping for the arrow embedded between his shoulder blades. But not before he had dropped the massive plank in place, sealing the doors. Claire's heart beat faster. She came out of her hiding spot, gripping her unloaded crossbow and flung it at the remaining guard. It collided with his helmet and he staggered, dazed and then fell. Claire hefted the plank and half lifted it from its cradle when another guard came around the corner of the structure with a bucket of pitch. He dropped it and ran toward her, pushing her from the door. The wooden plank came loose from the door as the guard fell on top of her, pinning her under him.

She could smell smoke and began to hear cries and yells from inside the stable. She tried to call for Christopher but her assailant was straddling her, his hands to her neck. He was leaning into her, putting the pressure of himself on her windpipe.

Claire gasped and sputtered, kicking her feet and clawing at his hands as he smiled down at her. In her watery vision she could see the thatch of the roof engulfed in orange flames. Why had they not believed her? Why had Christopher not told them? All was lost now, was it not?

Claire's arms sank from her sides as she teetered toward unconsciousness.

The guard that had been smiling as he cut off her air supply was suddenly coughing blood. It was dripping from his lips onto her face. She blinked and turned her head, avoiding the blood that had dripped into her eyes. The pressure on her throat had ceased and the guard's form fell limply on top of her.

She lay there for what seemed like several minutes, the sounds of clashing weapons and men engaged in combat swirled around her. The weight of the guard was finally dragged from her and she suppressed the urge to call out Christopher's name in relief to see him offering her his hand to help her to her feet. Almost too late she had realized that she was no longer Claire. To buy herself time to think properly she turned from her rescuer and surveyed the scene before her. Many of the Slytherin guard were subdued, those that had fallen were being heaped inside the burning structure; those taken alive were now also being forced inside. One soldier in scarlet and gold was re-barring the door. Amidst the screams and pleas of the Green Guard trapped inside the inferno, Claire felt herself spun around by one strong grip on her shoulder. She gasped, momentarily lost by the scene that she had had a hand in.

Several of the Scarlet Guard was staring at her.

Claire fought quickly for words, swiping bloodied strings of hair from her face.

"This is the boy whom we are to thank for our deliverance from the Green Guard, is it?" the swaggering head of guard said, standing next to Christopher and appraising her as if he was rather unimpressed.

"Sir, it is," Christopher answered for her as she opened her mouth and gaped, horrified that nothing would come out.

"Do you have a name, boy?"

"Erthane," Claire gasped at last, her eyes wide with horror as she was in the midst of so many soldiers, all having given their attention solely to her. "I have horses." She had spoken the words as the head of the guard made to add something further. "That is," Claire stammered, "I have gathered the guard's horses if you wished to fly to you lord's aid…that is," she finished lamely, looking down at her hands.

The guard surveyed her for several minutes more. "Men!" he commanded in a booming voice. "To your horses."

The Scarlet Guard filed out of the school leaving Claire alone with Christopher. He was staring. Claire shifted uncomfortably in his gaze. Finally Christopher bent and retrieved the crossbow Claire had launched at her attacker.

Taking it uncertainly, Claire flung it over her shoulder. Christopher squeezed her upper arm in a comradely gesture and walked away. Fighting a thrill that built in her stomach and a smile that spread to her lips Claire hefted her sword and followed. She had passed as a boy at least, and passed her own test of courage.

some passages were kindly borrowed from Shakespeare's _'Henry V'_.

not that I am lacking in imaginative ways to execute a person. Wallace's death was by the traditional means of execution for treason. There is not better visual example of this method than at the end of the film _'Braveheart'_.


	8. The Siege Of Christchurch

Chapter Eight

The Siege of Christchurch

_"Mindful of hardships, grievous slaughter, the ruin of kinsmen,_

_The wanderer said: 'Time and again the day's dawning I must _

_Mourn all my afflictions alone.'"_

_-The Wanderer, The __Exeter__ Book._

In the low lighted chamber, darkened by thick walls of rough-hewn stone Azria lay soaking in a tub of cold pewter. The temperature of the water had long since dwindled and melded with the chill of its metal container. As it was cold, it was no longer clear. Mingling with the water hauled up from the river by her maidservant, Azria's bath also contained deep, dark Scottish soil, dingy sweat from exertion and not a little bit of blood—some of which must be her dear brother's.

Only the highest points of her cheeks, her nose and her forehead broke the surface of the steady pool. Her concentration was bent on not disturbing the glass-like serenity and so endeavored to keep her breathing from rocking her body to the surface with every intake and plunging it back to the bottom when the air was spent from her lungs. It took her mind away from the grievous scene she had met two days before.

An all-too-sudden flash broke her concentration from the water and her breathing. Like lightening before her eyes, and quite as blinding, a succession of scenes hit her knocking her face below the surface. In surprise she gasped, flooding her lungs with water. What she had seen was horrifying. At first she had thought it was the battleground that she has recently come from, bearing her dead brother from it. But it was not. It was an aggressive siege bent on taking an enormous fortress whose back was pushed to the sea. There were faces she recognized: young Isabelle Gryffindor who could not get out. She was trapped in a burning room. Brave Christopher of the riding school—the steward of the Hufflepuff land—it was his son. She knew instinctively that he would not draw another breath.

The scene bled away, dissolving into a new one: the maid with the gift of forging from glass—a rare and admired talent—was standing upon a gallows, she had tears in her eyes. She was frightened. Her hands were bound behind her. What was happening to her? What had she done to incur such wrath?

When she tried to push this scene into an answer it had, like the one before it, drifted away; only to be replaced by a new scene.

This one was of Eomer. Azria tried to gasp, but this time she had no air, only water in her lungs. In vain she tried to call out but her words were mute. She could not make out the scene. When she tried to concentrate on the details they faded. Everything became white and she felt the energy drain from her as she floated just under the surface of her bath.

Rowena watched as Eomer worked. His project had taken them all but the last few moments of day to complete. Now those last touches of day were turned to gold by the sun which was setting over the mountains to the west.

She stood at a distance and watched him stoop to secure the last stone in the ground and cover it over with earth. His golden head bowed low, she thought curiously about its color and how it reflected the moods of the sun, Apollo—and certainly his life reflected that same tragedy.

Eomer looked up, dusting the dark soil from his hands. He caught her eye and was instantly made conscious of her scrutiny.  
Rowena, in a moment of awkwardness, turned to the sun and peered into its rays.

"A red sun will set, bringing blood with it," she commented at last.

Standing, Eomer also looked that way, shading his eyes with a soiled hand. "I think you must be right, lady," he replied plainly.

Rowena never heard this comment. She began walking faster down the hill, almost at a run.

Alarmed, Eomer dropped his hand and followed. As he closed the distance between them, he saw what she had: two riders.

Before he could ascertain the identities of the pair of riders Rowena's voice had cut off his posturing.

"Eomer," she commanded breathlessly. "Find my daughter. She is hunting in the southern wood. Take a horse, you will go faster." She indicated a stable at the other end of the brief hill. It was the first building before the large complex of Brigidena that jutted out from the expansive loch.

Eomer nervously nodded and moved off slowly, watching Rowena race toward the unpleasant visitors, calculating exactly how long it had been since he had ridden, and thinking even more apprehensively on the two riders and the lady's reaction.

Looking after her with a moment of consideration Eomer decided that she was either a very brave woman or that she knew not what danger she would inevitably meet.

As Rowena's sons, Theoderic and Galahad where making for the small port that lay west of them called Cork, two sons of Gryffindor rode silently into Christchurch. The sun was setting behind the quiet fortress giving it a last halo of serenity. Isaiah saw this as he cleared the thick forest on the farthest northern border and felt his heart drop into his stomach—a last cruel teasing picture of what by nightfall might be lost to them.

Motioning to the expanse below, Isaiah turned to his companion. "The heraldic firelight before the dawn of the fight."

Faramir looked to the many campfires dotting the landscape below them. The enemy lay in wait for dark and then…maybe a surprise stoning. He saw Christchurch before them like a helpless Stephen. They were all going to be persecuted for what they believed. Or maybe he just lacked the faith that gave other warriors their courage—that is how one's name was remembered after he was gone.

Sucking in a calming breath and forgetting his apprehension, Faramir turned to Isaiah and asked, "How shall we slip past them?" noting how far-reaching the firelight was.

Isaiah was already tugging the reins of his horse and disappeared into the forest they had just penetrated.

When Faramir had caught up with him, Isaiah explained stoically, "For centuries my family's stronghold has remained in our hands."

Faramir felt that hope should not be given over to the enemy quite yet. They had not even made it to the walled city to assess the situation. He wanted to tell Isaiah this but Isaiah continued, surprising Faramir with his admission.

"We can hold out for months with more men against us than you see before us now. Follow the river with me and I shall show you, loyal squire of my father, the Gryffindor's best guarded secret."

Faramir considered the gesture of confidence that Isaiah was showing in him, but the words "loyal squire of my father" and the feeling Isaiah had conveyed with them communicated to Faramir just how little confidence Isaiah held in his companion.

Dutifully, Faramir followed the son of his lord.

Helga set her shoulders and walked into the long tournament room that Salazar had been pacing.

He barely registered her presence.

This made her angry, that anger quickly dissolving into steely resolution.

"This is not true, is it?" Helga asked, knowing she did not have to elaborate. Salazar would have an answer for her, but she had decided before she ever entered the room that no answer was satisfactory.

She was waving a letter.

Salazar stopped his deliberate movements for a small interval in order to stare at the letter, resolving that he already knew who the author was.

"I must know what you mean by instigating war between yourself and Godric," she demanded, placing herself between Salazar and his intended path.

He stopped and considered for a moment. He was inches from her, could reach out and touch her if he had wanted to. He kept his fingers locked behind his back.

"I would have to consider a foe of mine to be equal in strength to bring this to a war. In this case, I mean merely to strip him of every crutch that remains to him. Edward means to destroy him, not I."

Helga grasped for words. "There is no hope for him at Christchurch, then?" There was a long pause. "Why would you destroy your friends?"

Salazar circumvented her and continued on his course. "I knew sooner than not you would come to me with these questions. I confess, I have not found an answer to convey my meaning aptly enough. But I can say that I act out of self preservation. While Rowena and yourself," he paused and turned a glaring look on her, "and even my son have colluded with Godric and with Wallace, our school has been placed in Edward's hands. Wallace is dead—"

Here Helga interrupted, braving Salazar's contemptuous look. "Wallace is dead because you _gave _him to Edward. What is it you fear about the side of right?"

Salazar drew himself up menacingly. "I fear nothing… least of all you, Helga. What is it you want from this conversation?" He stopped again and faced her. "An apology? An oath to stop my plans? What do you want?"

"I want you to give me your interests in this school," Helga announced.

Salazar considered her for an eternity before carefully answering, "I will not."

"In thirty or more years our friendship has weathered many things. Your absence of many years in the crusades, my marriage, your marriage, this school's founding… I do not see how this partnership will last. Our visions are just too…" Helga struggled for the appropriate words for what she felt was a very delicate idea to communicate.

"My idea is visionary. All I want is for the survival of our kind, our talents and our ways. Three out of the four of us…friends did you call us? You, Godric and even Rowena want to push our people into the mould that we do not fit in. Your idea does not shape our kind; it clips and tears at our identity until the resulting mass is acceptable to the inferior. It disgusts me to think about it." He neared her forcefully. "I say to your _kind _request: no. What is more, I will have this school from your corrupting grasp and Rowena's as well. You will not be able to influence this school. You will be stunned to witness with what efficiency I will do it."

Helga stared, disbelieving. "You cannot possibly. The school resides on my land."

Salazar smiled.

It was a smile that told Helga that she had underestimated what power he held over all of them.

"Trust me," he replied with snakelike smoothness.

"This is all true, then?" a voice asked shakily from the doorway of the tournament room. "My Godric's friends have turned on him. They will steal his school away, his estate at Christchurch, his very life?" Rose asked standing just inside the room. Her hand rested on a wall to support her heavy frame, and another supported her large middle that protruded even under layers of heavy fabric.

"Rose, do not upset yourself in your condition," Helga answered uneasily. "I am handling this. Please return to your room. You should not be out in all this state."

"I saw the smoke from the stable," she said, looking past Helga and into Salazar's cold eyes. "I know what it is you have done."

"What shall be your course of action against me? Are you suggesting that you have alliances with others of your _kind_ that would consent to assist your afflicted husband and his family?" he asked deliberately and sarcastically.

"My father—," Rose began.

"Lord Whitehall, _your father_, helped himself to a large part of the Gryffindor lands that the king offered for his assistance. It will be incorporated into his own lands when Edward's men have their inevitable victory." It was visible on his features how much he delighted in the horror reflected on the face of the frightened woman. He was so much enjoying the small triumph that he barely noticed Helga moving to traverse the space to Rose's side.

"You are cruel, Salazar. Truly," Helga proclaimed, reaching out to support Rose who pulled away from her.

"My daughter is with him," Rose said, more as a realization than as a proclamation. She had not finished the small sentence before she fell heavily to the ground, nearly blocking the doorway.

Helga stooped, patting her face, taking Rose's hand in her own. "Rose," she kept pleading. "Rose, wake up!" She looked to Salazar as he moved slowly closer.

In all her noise and fretting she did not hear Salazar's murmured, "_Pestillentea_

Helga's mouth was agape when her pleas of, "Salazar, help me with her," went unanswered.

Salazar merely stepped over the prone woman, calling as his steps disappeared down the hallway, "I shall send a servant."

In the shadow of the high and chalky cliffs two horses carried two riders.

Godric and Sarah had set the last ward stone, but not, Godric felt, before all of the chief actors of this scene had made it onto the stage. His plan to keep the soldiers from coming onto his estate and to the aid of those few hundred that already had set up camp against the walls of his city had failed. Already apprehension edged in on his consciousness that armed men were crossing into the border as he set that last stone.

There was one comfort in that at least: they were trapped on the estate.

Godric felt that he could deal with a finite number of enemies, just as long as Edward had no means of replenishing them.

He planned to enter his city undetected, gain a better vantage point of the situation. There would be time for reflection afterward—plenty of time, in fact, as they waited out the siege.

"There is singing on the cliff's ledge," Sarah commented, sitting rigidly on her saddle, aware of every hoof beat their animals made in the chalky soil of the beach. _One of them needs only look over and see us. It would be all over._

"I mark the voice of five-hundred at best. Edward could not spare more," Godric replied confidently and calmly, belying the tense feelings in his shoulders and the rapid pounding of his heart as his horse trudged silently through the sand. _They need only look over. _"Indeed, he has sent them to take what is mine and to show me—and those like me just what a low place we should hold." His words sounded bitter.

"You do not think he will replenish his troops in two or three day's time?" Sarah asked, astonished at her cousin's coolness of manner.

"You have not asked me on the whole of our journey across my estate what we have been doing, dutiful cousin." Godric replied in measured words. He was scanning the distance as they made a bend in the cliff-face and the beach continued around and disappeared behind the distant wall. "I do believe he will send reinforcements. It is too fair a prospect. But they will never find this place. The wards have masked the land. No more can they walk into my lands than I can cross out of them."

"You mean to say," Sarah asked slowly, "we are trapped here with our enemies?"

"I mean to say," Godric explained, "we have cut off those trespassers above us and now we shall see what might the king holds over us." If he had meant to say more he did not. Sarah's arrow whined past him, startling his horse. He followed the trajectory as it imbedded itself into the rock face ahead of them—just before the path of two men and their horses.

"But there!" Sarah exclaimed, replacing her bow for her reins, "Our source for fresh water and safe passage is found out! Two guards meet us ahead, just at the mouth of the cave."

"Then they shall never see the light of another day," Godric proclaimed, unsheathing his sword and digging a heel into the side of his horse.

Godric's instinct had been accurate. A band of soldiers had slipped onto the estate just as he had placed the last of the ward stones.

High above them in the forest that slopes down from the north for several miles before leveling out into the city of Christchurch that band of soldiers wended quietly through the same woods Isaiah and Faramir had slipped in from.

Among the riders in scarlet and gold regalia, Claire sat uneasily in the saddle, afraid of what was to come, afraid of her situation and most of all afraid of being found out by her peers. She did not count on them remembering that it was she who had saved them from Salazar Slytherin's trap, but she did not count on getting caught impersonating a soldier in any case.

As if purposefully aimed at contradicting this resolution, Claire heard the soldier on her right side draw closer. She turned and saw that it was her companion, Christopher.

"I know who you are," he whispered, careful to cut off his accusation as two soldiers overtook and passed them in the dim woods. "The question is," he continued when all others were at a safe distance from them, "why you risk all for men wholly unconnected with yourself." He sat up in his saddle, no longer leaning intimately close to her. "Perhaps you do not know what danger you will meet with when we enter Christchurch."

Claire felt a sting of indignity. "I fully know what is at stake. And if I had not convinced the Scarlet Guard, I would have plunged headlong into the fray alone," she answered, staring into Christopher's unconvinced eyes with resolve.

He leaned over in his saddle, this time less for the intimacy of private conversation than to emphasize the gravity of his point. "This is the English. They will bring with them trained archers whose volley will blot out the sun. The cavalry will bear down on us like a storm at sea, the hoof beats like thunder. They strike faster than a flash of light. They will not even consider you before they run you through."

The head of guard was riding by. As a passing comment he offered, "Do not frighten the new recruit, Christopher."

"Sir," Christopher answered, sitting upright in his saddle again.

Both Claire and Christopher waited until they were alone once more to continue. "Do you seek to educate me, or to give voice to your own fears?" Claire jabbed.

Earnestly Christopher answered, "I mean to warn you. I thank you for the service you have done us against the Green Guard, but perhaps you should turn back now."

Claire lifted her chin and stared sharply forward. "There is nothing you could say that would induce me to such an action."

She heard Christopher exhale and pause. "Then, for my own peace of mind, stay close to me, that I may always know you are safe."

Claire did not answer. She felt indignant at the suggestion, but oddly warmed and comforted. She felt her nerves ease to know that she had a friend among strangers here. She nodded and kicked a heel into her horse's side to catch up to the rest of the guard.

The sun had set when they cleared the forest and were afforded their first look of the besieged city. Fires dotted the two mile stretch of land laid out between them and their master's home. Siege engines were being assembled, large stones collected.

Claire shivered at the awesome sight of man's actions fueled by man's hate.

"It will be on by morning," Christopher said somewhere close to her.

"We set up camp here," the head guard ordered.

Claire met Christopher's eyes and his look was warning: stick close.

Eomer felt his task was impossible: find the indecorous little hunter known as Maren. It would have been impossible had an arrow not whizzed past Eomer. Immediately he took to one knee.

"Maren," he called. "Put down your bow."

A young woman of fifteen came darting out of the thick underbrush to his left.

A moment of surprise registered on her perfectly pale features before she laughed.

"That shot would have sent me straight to the devil had I gotten you. My apologies," she offered.

Dressed in a brown doublet and protective leather guards for her wrist she looked in all respects like a young man. Her hair tied back with golden wild tendrils down her back and the skirt she wore half steeped in mud were the only signs that gave away her sex, save that she had a decidedly feminine way with her movements, not at all delicate, more of a bold assertion of her duality. You could tell that the skirt was imposed upon her by her mother. Dirtying the hem must be her way of communicating the ridiculousness of the thing.

"Think not on it," Eomer replied breathlessly. He rose and dusted off the knees of his frock. "I am sent to fetch you."

Maren stopped where she was, lowering her bow. "Why?" She looked past him as if the answer were written behind them. "What has happened?"

"Where is your steward's house? I think we may need his help," Eomer said, not answering her question.

"My mother," Maren demanded, tightening her grip on her weapon. "Where is she?"

"Lady Rowena instructed me to find you and I have. Do what you will, I cannot stop you. I am ignorant of the feuds of your land and I have no right to impose will or prudence on you. I only ask of you to point me toward your steward that I may apply for his help." Eomer stared impatiently at the girl and waited for her to decide her own course of action. She finally pointed east toward the main road.

"His is the first house you shall pass between here and the village."

Maren lifted her bow and ran past Eomer the way he had come into the wood.

Thinking better of it, Eomer did not allow her to get on her way immediately.

"Maren," he called.

She stopped, obviously perturbed at the interruption from her course.

"Those who wield the sword will surely die upon it," he warned.

She turned to leave the wood, calling out as she disappeared beyond Eomer's sight, "If it is my destiny."

He looked out in the direction she had gone for a moment considering the girl and her rash behavior. "Destiny," he repeated to himself, unsure whether he believed in the thing or not. Then he headed toward the village to find the steward.

"Six of the Guard is dead," Eowyn informed her father, closing the door to his private room behind her. "What is that?" she asked as an afterthought, sneering at an ugly speckled egg that was at least as large as a human head.

Salazar sat polishing the egg at a center table and ignored the last question.

"I mean to know how the Scarlet Guard was alerted," he announced resolutely.

Eowyn folded her arms across her chest. Contemplatively she murmured, "Godric Gryffindor will know of your plot by morning.

"Thank you, my pet," Salazar said, gritting his teeth. "I had not thought of that."

"What will you do?" Eowyn pressed.

Salazar continued polishing. "Continue as planned. Godric will not live." The pronouncement came as a fact from his lips—one he was warming to by the second. "It is futile after that. Rowena Ravenclaw will meet much the same fate." He smiled. "Helga will be far easier to deal with."

"Better and better," Eowyn said without feeling. She had heard all of this many times. There was still always a hint of doubt hanging in the room. "She is with child, you know," she added. She delighted in the small pieces of information she could accumulate around the compound of the two estates and the school. Even better was that information if it could in anyway catch her father off guard. He had not known of Helga and the child. She allowed herself a small smile.

"How are you so sure?" he asked, abandoning the egg—and propriety in front of his daughter—allowing a moment of shock to show on his features.

Eowyn pushed away from the door. She was pleased to have an avid audience in her father. She sat across from him leaning over the table conspiratorially. "A servant of her household told me of her circumstance. Her husband is dead. I wonder who the child belongs to."

"Why is that your business?" Salazar asked standing and replacing the egg in the cupboard in the corner and locking it.

"What is better? This same loose-tongued servant also told me that one of Helga's kitchen servants has disappeared. There was a pile of the maid's clothing found behind the outer wall of the kitchen, next to the stables. A boy from the riding school was the last to see her." Eowyn allowed herself another amused smile. "She stole his shoes."

"What are you on about, girl?" Salazar asked. His annoyance was reaching a fevered pitch.

Eowyn dropped her jaw as she saw he was not grasping the point. "Do you not see father? She disappeared just before the fire in the stable. The missing maid certainly has something to do with the death of the six soldiers of your Green Guard."

"For Christ's sake, child," Salazar shouted, only partially in disbelief. He mostly believed that there was truth in this. But he wanted peace to go over the facts without the incessant prattle of his silly gossip daughter plaguing him. "Leave me!"

Eowyn, caught off guard by his sudden outburst blinked. Standing slowly, she excused herself with a curtsey and a low apology under her breath.

Azria found herself lying in a pool of water. Covers of fur and linen had been pulled up to her chin. She had been laid in her bed, everything was damp feeling. She moved to get up, feeling the cool air hit her neck and shoulders. Her hair lay in dripping tangles on her pillow, down her back and around her neck. She felt as if she were being tied down by her own sopping mane.

Frightened by the imagined state of bondage she had awakened to, Azria sat up and screamed.

Several voices came back to her; all urging her, commanding her to lie still. Her stepmother's voice was mingled in with that of the more familiar sounds of her personal servants.

"You do not have the strength to be difficult, child. Calm yourself," Helga commanded from somewhere unseen.

Azria lay back on her pillow and craned her neck to the head of her bed. Helga was there. She had a hold of one of Azria's wrists.

"You nearly drowned yourself," Helga explained conspiratorially. She looked across to the other side of Azria's bed to where her handmaiden grasped her other wrist. "Catherine found you, and not too soon, I might add."

Azria could not understand why Helga was so accusing. She had not meant to fall under the surface of the water. She had been startled by something and sucked in a breath full of water. But what had startled her?

She wanted to explain, to tell Helga what had really happened in there, but she could not remember the circumstances herself.

Azria jerked her hands free of both restraints.

"I am not mad! I did not try to kill myself!"

"It is a most unforgivable sin," Helga continued without hearing Azria's words. "God gives us all grief and loss. You, I understand, have had more of a share in these than most. But Azria, this is inexcusable. I do not quite know how to proceed from here." Helga shook her head and shooed most of the staff from the room. Only Catherine remained behind.

"You need to rest. I will not have you carrying on this way. These are very dangerous times. You cannot give our enemies this power over us. There are some who would take advantage of your illness and do you harm."

Helga moved to the door and produced a key.

Catherine followed her.

Handing the key to Catherine, Helga's eyes never left Azria's. "She does not leave this room. If you need anything ask the servant posted outside the door. I do not want you to leave her side for any reason."

Catherine nodded one short nod and placed the key in an apron pocket after locking the door behind Helga.

_What have I done to frighten everyone? What does Helga fear will leave this room…or enter it?_

Azria drifted out of consciousness before she could puzzle the answers to these and other questions that clouded her mind.

"I have a feeling that we are being followed," Faramir said, stopping his horse and turning in his saddle. He peered past the ledge in the cliff face that jutted out behind them, blocking the path they had followed to this point.

Isaiah stopped at this pronouncement and studied that point for a moment as well.

"Come," Isaiah said finally, leaping from his saddle and picking up a piece of discarded pine. It had been long abandoned by the waves, high up on the beach and was dry. Isaiah tapped the end of the makeshift torch with his wand.

The moment that Faramir had taken his attention away from the path behind them an arrow whizzed past him, grazing his ear and imbedding itself into the rocks directly in front of them.

Isaiah dropped the torch and reached for his sword.

Faramir, still in his saddle, wheeled his horse and charged down the beach.

Isaiah saw his horse stop halfway down the sandy path and then skid sideways in the soft earth.

Their attackers had shown themselves. Although Isaiah could not see either of the intruding riders, Faramir's actions had told Isaiah that they were friends. He bent to pick up the extinguished torch and walked back, tracing the frantic hoof prints of Faramir's horse in the sand.

He was not astonished to see his father and his father's cousin, Sarah.

"I could have killed you. You ought to take care," Sarah was chastising Faramir.

"I apologize, my lady," Faramir said humbly.

Sarah looked affronted. "My lady?" she raged. "Call me Sarah."

Godric had jumped from his saddle to grasp the hand of his son with obvious joy. "Forgive me," he said turning to Sarah and Faramir, still squeezing the hand of his son. "Faramir, my squire, this is my cousin, Sarah."

Sarah smiled, instantly warming to Faramir. He nodded self-consciously and turned toward the cliff they had been studying before the arrow had flown past him.

Isaiah pointed with his torch, lit once again, "Going the same way, I assume?"

Godric nodded.

"I thought you would have still been in Scotland with Wallace?" Godric asked.

Faramir and Isaiah exchanged dark looks that did not escape Godric.

"Something has gone wrong?" Godric guessed.

"Wallace was captured and the battle did not favor us," Isaiah said, looking to the west, the sun lighting a million point of light out across the channel. "Aaron is dead. Who knows where Bruce has gone."

"How did you come to be standing here?" Godric asked certain that a large piece of information was eluding him. "Is my Guard with you?"

"Faramir and I left the campaign as it ended at Falkirk. Lady Verina sent a letter meaning to warn Aaron of Edward's plans for Christchurch. It did not reach him alive. She hoped that Aaron's small force might come to your assistance. Not many of them had survived. Faramir and I are all that is left to answer your call."

"Then I am happy you have come," Godric said, but there was no sign of happiness on his features. He seemed to look worn and worried and a lot older than Isaiah had ever seen him look.

Everyone dismounted and lead their horses to an outcropping of rock that looked like five steps that started a staircase. If you did not know to look for them you would not have known they were there.

Indeed, Faramir had been standing right at this point, the arrow was imbedded in the fifth of the steps.

He dropped the reins of his animal and slapped its rear, sending it off down the beach with the three other horses that had been ridden down here.

Sarah was cursing the loss of her two horses as Godric assured her they would find their way back to the river.

Isaiah was the first to reach the fifth step. From there it seemed to be less like a staircase than a succession of footholds and small recesses in the rock to pull you up.

Faramir brought up the end, tagging along after Sarah.

He watched where she went and emulated her moves as best he could. She seemed to traverse the vertical space almost effortlessly. She only had a few problems with her bow and quiver as they seemed to encroach upon her elbow space.

Faramir felt less sure-footed and was glad to see a small indention in the rock about two thirds of the way up the face of the rock. It was a space just big enough for someone to crouch into.

One by one, however Isaiah and then Godric and Sarah disappeared into the small space, leaving the terrace free. Faramir had not seen that the small space emptied out into a larger natural cave.

Once he had climbed to the ledge and thrown his arms out, legs dangling free over the beach below, Godric and Isaiah seized an arm and hoisted him over.

Faramir ducked the low overhanging that cut the cave off from the outside, blocking its view from nominal passersby. Underneath of this was a cavernous space that all four members of the party could stand in.

Looking up, Faramir noted a small pinpoint of light. There must be an opening up there somewhere, he thought, noting how high the ceiling of the space was. He could picture the camps of several of the enemy resting just above them.

In the center of the cave was a murky, stagnant black pool that smelled to Faramir like a stable that was long overdue for a cleaning out.

Around the edge of the black water there was a sandy bar where footprints marked a seldom used path. Faramir thought that those footprints could not have been new, but preserved in this ancient place for many years. He thought of his own footprints residing here for ages until they were discovered and trampled out by some newcomer.

The footprints led to an unassuming outcropping of rock that was cut back just enough to skirt past without touching the foul water. Isaiah moved toward this outcrop and then carefully past it.

The faint sound of bats met Faramir's ears and he realized that the ceiling must be covered in them. He followed the smoke trail of Isaiah's torch upward and saw several low-hanging rocks that seemed to slither in response to the light and smoke: bats. Their sleep having been interrupted, were making their presence known.

The pitch of the nocturnal animals escalated into a roar of screaming and screeching to which was added the flapping of thousands of tiny wings.

Faramir shut his eyes and mouth as droves of the creatures swarmed around him and past him, all funneling out of the entrance the way the four had come.

The party stood motionless for a while until the swarming stopped and the cave had emptied out into the hunting grounds of the night sky.

Faramir heard Isaiah at the front of the group curse. When he opened his eyes what he saw was black, oppressive and thick.

The torch had been extinguished in the swirl of air caused by the many flapping wings, snuffing out their only light.

There was a rustling and some low conversation before one of the wizards, Godric, had located his wand.

A _Lumos _brought everything back into dim light before fading and snuffing itself out. Godric called _Lumos _once more and a second flash from his wand brought everything momentarily into light.

The torch was located inches from the stagnant water. Isaiah retrieved it and lit it.

Now the only sound before Faramir was the quiet hissing and spitting of the torch's flames.

Once around the rock a cut passage led away from the dark underground lake and to the north, about five feet tall and three feet wide.

When Faramir saw this, Isaiah crouching low and entering, Sarah next and then Godric, he hoped that the tunnel did not last long. With a creeping feeling on his skin, he ducked and stepped into the musty opening.

Galahad eyed his brother nervously.

Theoderic had not spoken so many as ten words on the whole of their journey. Having their cause dashed upon the rock like a piece of discarded crockery had been a blow to all of them. Some men had paid the ultimate price to see their dream of freedom from Edward's rule given life and breath.

Galahad hoped that they had not seen the end of it all but had drifted off quietly and peacefully into the end of all things.

For those that remained, however, theirs was a price of having to live to see their leader torn apart—their cause, in essence, ripped to pieces. Galahad looked at the swaying form of his brother as he sat and stared aimlessly forward in his saddle.

Galahad felt the weariness of battle in his bones; his joints ached with loss and disappointment. There was a sort of dull warmth in his heart to think about home—not the school, but Ireland.

He was here.

As he looked at the sheep dotted hills, the gray and threatening sky as a backdrop, he felt home. The ominous clouds that promised a wet journey did nothing to chill the relief he felt at the prospect of being at his childhood home again.

How long had it been?

No significant amount of time had been spent here since the last time his father had visited. Galahad frowned. He had wanted to kill his father then. Had the feelings of hatred dissolved in the many years they had been from here? Had the blood Galahad had seen spilled in battle shaken his cavalier perspective on taking lives? He did not know.

He knew that after everything he had seen and done lately—and certainly by the time this rain had soaked him through, he would be welcoming the sight of a blazing fire.

As the first fat drops began to rain down, Galahad turned his attention to Theoderic again.

"Only about ten leagues straight in and we shall be home, brother," Galahad announced more to see if his brother would respond than to inform him of the distance. They both knew that they would be home before mid of night.

Theoderic nodded. It seemed he did not even blink the droplets of water out of his eyes as they blew into his face.

For nearly the hundredth time since Galahad had seen that light fail in his eyes, almost the very moment the axe fell on his friend and hero, Wallace, Galahad wondered what he was thinking.

Was he merely lamenting his fallen comrade with his silence?

Was he forming a quiet plot for revenge?

Had he merely given up on Scotland, on the school, on their people?  
Galahad knew that _his _fight was not over. But it seemed as though his brother's was. He was at a loss as to what to say to him, how to convey hope. Hope did not want anything to do with this pair, Galahad thought, smiling grimly and turning his face up to feel the large Irish drops of mist catch and splash on his tired face.

Ten leagues to go.

"Everything is quiet," Claire said, pulling her elbows in tighter toward her ribs.

"Most of the camp down there has fallen off to sleep," Christopher explained.

"You mean have passed out," Claire returned.

Christopher only smiled.

There had been an endless breeze of drinking tunes wafting into the forest above for hours after sunset. Christopher tried to remember how long the silence had reigned now. It could not have been long before Claire had pointed it out. He could not guess how he could have missed the complete absence of the noise.

"When do you think it will begin?" Claire asked after a moment.

Christopher shrugged and slumped down against a tree.

"If they are wise they will start before dawn."

Claire nodded as if she could automatically discern the logic in his statement, but soon felt she could not fool him. "Why is that?"

She sat down against the same tree, wanting to push her back up to his to cut the chill from the night wind that was blowing up the hill from the cliffs. She thought better of this when she became unsure if it were the behavior acceptable of a man. She caught herself slipping up more and more in her private moments with Christopher.

She constantly had to remind herself that she could be sentenced to death for this impersonation. If she could slip up and give herself away now, she certainly would on the battlefield.

"Stop it," Christopher commanded after a moment of tense silence.

"Stop what?" Claire asked, alarmed.

"Thinking about what will happen if you get caught."

Claire pulled her cloak tighter around her. "There is a fair chance that I will."

The silence that followed told her that he agreed.

"I think it was a brave thing you did," he admitted finally.

When Claire's turn to answer with silence came it was only because she felt that all responses would be inadequate. She needed someone backing her up out here more than anything, perhaps even more than she needed her own reserve of courage. The thought also frightened her terribly.

"It was foolish. But so we all are, are we not?" Christopher added finally.

"Why would you say that?" Claire asked instantly. She felt him shrug in answer.

"Why are any of us here, really?" Christopher asked. "I do not know my lord, Godric Gryffindor. I have never been to this land and therefore feel no kinship with it or its people."

"Why are you here?" Claire demanded softly. She knew her reasons, even if she had not the words to convey them. Maybe he did not have the words either.

"I would have been dead right now if it had not been for you. If my only reasons for being here right now are to protect you and to see you safely home, then my coming here would not have been a waste," he said finally, sinking lower towards the tree's base and throwing an elbow up to shade his eyes though there was no light visible among the trees. "Get some sleep," he instructed finally.

Claire had a sudden pang of regret: _what if he died tomorrow. Would I see him die? Would I be able to save him?_ She did not think she would be able to live a content life hereafter knowing that it was for her that he had come to this place and died. _Listen to yourself, Claire. I am discussing the possible death of a friend. How callous am I?_

But the thought still occupied her mind for many hours more that night while Christopher slept soundly beside her.

Faramir tried not to think about the dark. He tried not to think that the small passage felt like a crypt. _No one would find us if we died here_.

In the instant that he had completed this thought he saw Isaiah's light drop out ahead of him.

_Isaiah has lost our only light. We will be feeling our way around in vast amounts of darkness for who knows how long. _

But when Sarah also fell off the path of the small tunnel in front of him, Faramir realized where the light had gone. He also picked up the faint hints of moving water.

Isaiah and the torch, Godric and finally Sarah had stepped out of the tunnel into a lower, wider tunnel. At the center of this was the glint of water, fast moving water.

Isaiah was already moving toward the right of the cave. A large mineral deposit ages old served as a place to tie up a small boat.

Faramir climbed from the small tomb of a tunnel and immediately felt his breathing become easier. He climbed the sandy edge of the river and reached the ropes. He pulled the ropes off of the rock as Isaiah pushed the vessel with one hand, the other holding the torch that lit Faramir's way to the river.

With a whoosh of breaking water the boat was in the river.

Faramir felt the strength of the current as he and Isaiah held the boat to the shore.

Godric handed Sarah into the boat first and she grabbed the torch, holding it high.

Godric leapt in next and stood, reaching for another large mineral deposit that seemed to drip from the ceiling into the river. It was solid and served to hold them there against the current.

Isaiah nodded to Faramir.

Uneasily Faramir climbed into the boat, rocking and swaying before he was pulled down into the center of the boat by an exasperated Sarah.

Isaiah was last and leapt into the boat, pushing off from the shore as he did so.

With the movement of the current and Faramir's estimation of where the fortress lay above them, it should be less than an hour until they were out of this nightmarish underground lair.

"Sir!" Claire called in her most urgent whisper. She stood and stirred Christopher from his sleep as she did so.

The commander of the guard was in hushed conversation with two subordinate officers. He turned and glared, but the glare disappeared as he moved his eyes in the direction Claire had indicated.

A small band of English troops had come across the clearing in the earliest hours of the morning. No one had been awake to see them but Claire.

The commander reached immediately for his sword.

"Sir," Claire entreated once more. "If you give our position away they will only send more. If we wait for them to come to us…"

The commander nodded. "No one will miss them."

"No one will have to. Discard their bodies but keep their tunics and standards and we shall impersonate them."

The commander had stopped her suggestion before she could fully voice it by pushing her against the tree and knocking the breath from her. "A clever thought from an insolent boy. Wake the others and hide. They will be on us."

Claire nodded and rushed off.

"Do not put yourself out there to be discovered. I could not save you if you were found out," came Christopher's angered voice behind her.

"Wake them," Claire ordered him, pointing to a stand of trees and more of Godric's men sleeping under them.

Claire kicked the boots of some drowsing men. "Awake, men!"

She pointed to the nearing group of soldiers. "Hide yourself!"

To their confused expressions she added, "Ready your weapons. Surprise them. But no noise."

She turned and surveyed their patch of underbrush and found that everyone had been wakened and concealed. She heard Christopher whisper somewhere to her distant right, "They come!"

But she had not time to duck. She had been seen by the group of English soldiers as they entered the still forest.

"There!" one shouted.

Claire felt her heart race into her throat. She ran deeper into the woods.

She could not look behind her for fear that she would topple to the ground, but heard her pursuers being cut down one by one.

There was a cry of surprise from one soldier hot on her trail and then the commander had come from his concealed spot behind a tree and cut him down.

Claire could sense someone coming up close to her, parallel to her, directly on her right side but invisible in the brush. She could not out run him.

There was a strong metallic note as a sword was drawn near to her shoulder. She closed her eyes for a moment against the anticipation of being struck by the blow.

She thought she had been struck because there was a strong pain at her ankle and she toppled over.

The soldier pursuing her to the right jumped from the low cluster of trees and with a grunt embedded his sword in her attacker.

Surprise caused Claire to open her eyes and she saw Christopher bring down one ringing blow after another on the soldier that had struck her.

She remembered that she had been injured but her ankle no longer felt the pain of the blow. Claire sat up quickly and took the injured limb in her hands to examine it.

The answer was lying next to her: When she had closed her eyes against his anticipated strike, she had tripped over a root, thus the pain that she felt when she fell.

When Claire looked up she saw Christopher: teeth bared like a wolf, covered in blood. His victim was on his knees with an equally fierce look. Christopher dropped his sword and pulled a knife, pressing it to the man's throat.

Then Christopher caught Claire's look and he hesitated.

"Do it!" the captive man goaded.

Claire felt the muscles of her face tighten in what she could only assume was a look of complete fear.

But Christopher had paused because he had interpreted this look in a way that spoke a fear of him from Claire.

Claire was watching, unable to make a noise.

Behind Christopher another soldier, not of the Gryffindor standard, was crouching, moving closer like a stealth cat.

Claire's trembling hands found Faramir's knife before her throat could find words.

Quickly her fingers found purchase on its hilt and she pulled it free of her belt and flung it forward.

It found a niche between the man's collar bone and his chin and he stood sputtering for a moment before he sank to his knees. He stopped breathing before his body fell fully to the forest floor.

This pause in Christopher's actions gave his attacker a few moments to get the better of him. He twisted from Christopher's grip and pulled his sword from the spot where Christopher had discarded it.

Armed with a knife only, Christopher had only quick reflexes to buy him time.

Claire was counting on Christopher's ability to move fast and to keep out of sword's reach. She ran fast, ducking blows of neighboring skirmishes, dodging men who dodged blows.

The commander was being worn down by a more agile opponent, running him backwards, parrying stronger blows that he was giving.

There was a moment of silent connection between her and her commander. She nodded and stuck a foot out, unseen by her commander's attacker. He was pinned down the moment she took his feet out from under him.

And Claire ran faster to make up for the time this act had lost her.

She was looking for her crossbow. She had left it by the tree that she had spent the night resting against.

It was no longer there.

She spun wildly, looking anywhere for the lost weapon. She looked wildly for any weapon.

Claire scanned the swirling mass of fighting men. She could not hope to overpower any of them and take a weapon.

She looked along the floor of the forest where the dead lay.

There, at her feet lay a man staring up at her, his eyes unseeing. In his limp fingers lay her brother's crossbow. She knew it was his because of the unique inlay of pewter lions. It was not a costly weapon, but precious to him in other ways.

She lifted it and cursed. Where would she get arrows?

She spun around and caught sight of Christopher. He was growing tired. With no other weapon than his dagger, he could only dodge the stronger blows of the other. His attacker was smiling, sure that it wouldn't be too much longer until Christopher slipped up and gave him an opportunity to strike.

Claire cursed. Her voice sounded tinny and unfamiliar to her. She found herself thinking that if Christopher were killed she would face the rest of this conflict without a friend at all.

She ran to another poor dead soul, this time it was one of her own. He had traveled from Scotland to Christchurch with her and the rest of the Gryffindor company.

Claire muttered a quick apology and pulled the crossbow's arrow from the man's chest. It caught for a moment on a fragment of bone from his ribcage and Claire felt like she might vomit, pushed the thought aside and tugged harder.

It finally came from the wound with a soft sucking noise.

Claire, with bloody fingers, threaded the arrow and took careful aim. She had to wait for other battles to clear from her path.

Her patience paid off.

At the last moment, the attacker's hope had come: he pushed Christopher back against a tree whose roots were coming through the soil like the dead. Christopher tripped and fell hard on his back.

He lashed out with his feet and caught one of the man's ankles, but the man kept his balance.

Christopher knew then that he had been defeated.

That was when Claire's arrow hit the man between his eyebrows, just as he had drawn Christopher's sword over his head, preparing to plunge it into Christopher.

The impact crossed the man's eyes and he dropped the sword before sinking to his knees, and then forward onto Christopher.

Christopher lay there for a long time, covered in his opponent's blood, the man's body splayed out over his like a blanket.

Claire appraised her weapon, shocked at how lethal it was at such a distance.

"The sappers are at work," Godric announced sadly.

Isaiah looked to a standing pool at the base of a staircase. Small, concentric rings appeared and then faded only to appear moments later.

"Sappers?" Faramir asked, tying the boat to a jutting rock and climbing the sandy bank to the staircase.

"Undermining. They are digging a tunnel under my walls, maybe to enter, maybe to topple the defenses." Godric fell silent at the implications. He wondered if he had misjudged Edward's need of his city.

"Perhaps we should give them something they would never expect, father," Isaiah said broodingly.

"What is that?" Godric asked faintly, pushing through a door in the stone where a ring hung. Isaiah put his shoulder into the wall too, causing the hinges to creek. It finally gave in and swung wide.

"An empty city," Isaiah said.

Everyone was looking at him, Isaiah had found.

"Abandon the land of my fathers?" Godric asked, bewildered at such a thought.

"No," Isaiah countered.

As they stepped through into a stone tunnel, Faramir found that he was standing inside a fireplace. The passage led from the caves on the cliff to the fireplace of a great room.

The party filtered out of the fireplace and into the cavernous hall.

Faramir had not seen such a grand place since the great hall at the school; and that had only the appearance of loftiness brought about by the heavenly ceiling. This place was truly grand.

"We merely give the impression of having abandoned it," Isaiah explained. "All those who cannot fight can leave through the passage. The water is not deep, even a child could wade it." Isaiah looked to be calculating silently. "How many archers are quartered here?"

"Bishop Elfred has arranged everything here," Godric answered, more alive to the idea now.

"If the sappers do intend only to enter the city and not breech the walls, they will enter to find the place deserted, they will let open the gate and fill Christchurch with English soldiers. I will conceal myself at the gatehouse and when no one is there to man the gates, I will close out half of their force. Once led into a false security, our archers will uncover themselves and let loose a volley to divide that force yet again by two. Then it will come to the strength of their arm and ours. When we have no one else to bloody and ruin we will invite Edward's second force into Christchurch to their own fate." Isaiah finished with a small smile, going over the idea in his mind.

"Arrange the archers. I will find what fighters I have here. The evacuation of Christchurch will be overseen by the Bishop." Godric departed with an encouraging slap on his son's shoulder.

"We have work ahead of us, Faramir," Isaiah said with a smile. "Sarah, will you come too?"

"Aye," Sarah said, exasperated. "You did not expect I should run away with the other women and children?"

Isaiah winked and showed the others from the hall and to the battlements.

Salazar went to the grave of his mother once again.

He felt that something uncomfortable, something he did not want to hear or be confronted with was hanging heavily in the misty night.

Grudgingly he was seeking her council once more—he who had once looked up to the lady who stilled the winds and commanded the clouds to part or cluster thickly, bringing lightening. Now he felt he had long outgrown dependency on her.

And he would no longer blame himself for her lonely death.

A voice moved away on the air and took the flame of his torch with it.

"Mother…" Salazar whispered.

A snap of a twig on the path over his shoulder told him that he had been followed to this place. "Eowyn!" he hissed with irritation, turning on the assumed intruder.

A hooded figure stood on the path he had just taken to this place.

Slowly the woman lifted her head and Salazar felt her eyes on him. The stare did not feel familiar, but her shape was familiar.

"Eowyn," he said lowly. "I wish to be alone. Leave me."

In answer a hand came to her hood and lowered it. The moonlight, though faint, was enough to highlight the golden-silver hair that fell down from her shoulders.

The eyes, however, were not his daughter's, but those of his mother.

"Are you glad to see me, son?" she asked in a low voice.

He remembered that voice, melodious and deep. It was commanding of attention and never had that cunning ring that Eowyn's possessed. Neither was it bathed in kindness like Verina's.

"No, mother," Salazar answered. "My heart is in turmoil."

"What is it that you seek of me? Agreeance?" She stood like a stone carving in the middle of the path, her eyes unblinking, expecting an answer.

Salazar felt that she knew his heart and was compelled to speak its pain as plainly as he could, but not without some accusation creeping into the words as well.

"Nothing has turned out as you told me it would, mother," Salazar cried finally.

"Was it I who instructed you to seek out Helga's companionship? Verina was enough for you. But you have such a malcontented heart, son. You cannot settle on one thing. Has she made you happy?"

Salazar thought a moment. "No. I hate her and long for her almost at the same instant. But even without Helga, Verina has not made me happy."

"You make yourself unhappy. Not even by bearing you another child, perhaps another heir?"

"She will not let me see it, I know not if it is a son."

"Your quarrel will cost you." The words came so bluntly from his mother's lips that they spoke an irreparable finality.

There was a silence that mingled with the wind, it was felt but made not a sound.

"How must I proceed from here?" Salazar asked finally, desperately.

The image of his mother seemed to fade by the passing moment and began to drift in the fog away to the cliff opposite the river. She lifted a graceful hand and pulled her hood back over her face.

"However you see fit to proceed," came a voice finally disembodied and wandering.

Salazar's heart felt more burdened than when he had first set out on his midnight walk. He turned and continued on the path, resolved not to return to his home until he had a course for the future security of his family marked out fully in his mind.

Behind her eyelids the snow fell quickly, the air full of a stifling powder, a quiet so complete in a pristine world that would have been beautiful enough to break her heart. But she ran forward in the snow, only cursing what made her journey slower.

Her own voice cut through the white world on the verge of waking. "_Eomer!_" she shouted at the end of her wits, her heart feeling panicky.

In a distant, snow dusted evergreen two wrens answered her by fleeing urgently toward the mountains.

Falling like flakes of snow but with more urgency came the thought that it was too soon to lose him. How could she have lost him when they had only just found each other again?

She was focused on reaching the small stand of trees on the other side of which lay his father's estate. But her feet kept sticking in the snow that was piling foot after foot between her and her intended destination.

Her muscles were achy and her breathing desperate, throat stinging. She called his name once more and felt this time with her beating heart that she was heard.

But she stopped short when a darkly dressed figure stumbled away from the tree that the wrens had made a nest of.

"_Eomer!_" she cried once more and the figure stopped and saw her.

Her eyes connected with his.

But he did not see her.

He did not see.

He only fell forward to his knees and then pitched forward, face buried, into the snow.

Azria opened her mouth the call to him once more but no sound came out of her aching pipes.

But she woke up and lost sight of the white world and the still figure.

"He is in Eire," came the plain and unassuming answer of her brother, Mungo.

Azria sat up in her bed. She felt the cool air hit her forehead. She had been sweating.

Mungo put aside a leather bound book he had been studying.

"What?" Azria asked, perplexed.

"You called out for Eomer," he explained. "I merely offered that he is in Eire with Lady Ravenclaw."

"What is today?" Azria asked urgently, feeling her dream already slipping into forgotten regions.

"Sunday," Mungo answered.

Azria sighed heavily and slumped. "I missed it then."

Mungo nodded slowly. "Yes, but he understood that you were not well."

Tears fell and felt hot on Azria's cool face. "I wanted to be there to say goodbye. Why is she doing this?"

"I do not know. I do not think you feeble. Your fits do not come often enough to warrant such watchfulness. Maybe she is afraid of who might know about your…condition," he said carefully.

"For heaven's sake Mungo, what is it?" Azria spat, wiping her face and pulling her hair into a knot away from her neck.

"I believe mother is keeping you here because it would be dangerous if Lord Slytherin knew what it was you were seeing."

Azria leveled a hard look upon her brother.

"I do not even remember what it is I have been seeing. How would he see my visions?" she asked incredulously.

Mungo shrugged. "I am merely speculating."

"Speculate a way out for me. I refuse to remain locked up. I am a grown woman," Azria shouted.

There was a moment of silence to descend upon the room.

"I am sorry, brother." Azria let the apology hang in the air for a moment.

Mungo nodded and smiled before Azria continued. "Was his a beautiful ceremony?"

Again Mungo nodded solemnly. "It was a nice day to see him on his journey. He will find his way to the halls of our fathers."

Azria smiled sadly and looked toward the dawn breaking on the window pane. "Is that what heaven is like?"

Mungo thought for a moment. "I suppose it is different for everyone. Maybe it is a white shore somewhere to the west, just before the sunset."

"That sounds nice. I know Aaron would be happy there."

"Do not mourn for him. He would not be able to leave us if there are tears," said Mungo stoically.

"I loved him. He was a gentle child," Azria said with the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, "until he grew taller than me."

"His heart was in the battle. For some, God supplies the courage to fight," he almost whispered.

Azria looked from the window and blinking the sun from her eyes, found her brother scrutinizing her.

"We all have our gifts; God leaves no one without them."

"I will miss him," Azria replied finally, lying back on her pillow, staring at her brother's steady, patient face until she closed her eyes again and fell asleep.

"When it got dark, I thought you had left me, father," Isabelle said, jumping from the bed that the maid had just struggled to tuck her into.

"I did not leave you, my dear. But I must ask of you one thing," Godric said, collecting his child in his arms and setting her on his lap as he sat at the foot of the empty bed.

"One thing?" Isabelle asked, a small hand fingering the hilt of her father's sword, tapping out some unnamed tune on it.

"Yes," Godric said urgently, but with some innate indulgence in his voice, "you must go with your maid and the Bishop and some others."

"Now, when the maid told me I must go to sleep?" Isabelle asked.

Godric smiled. "Do not pretend with me. I know that you have not the smallest intention of sleeping now. Do you remember when Isaidore took you down into the dungeons of the school?"

"Yes," Isabelle said eagerly. She smiled with bright eyes and hazelnut curls falling into her round face.

Godric took careful inventory of her similarities to himself and of Rose, and those small differences that she possessed from his other children. How he would miss her if he did not come out of this. His favorite, his impish child that he indulged maybe too much, she must be spared from this.

"Are not you coming too?" she asked, her lips curled into a waiting pout.

Godric shook his head. "I must stay, beloved. No more questions. We must hurry now."

He lifted his small child and set her down on the bed, moving to collect her cloak and slippers and quickly call for her servant to dress her.

With one look back at her as he closed the door he meant to remember her as he saw her there, with a grin on her face, bending her neck around to catch the last glimpse of him before the door shut them away from each other.

All of the bloodshed and conflict that he had ever involved himself in, every man he had ever killed, he knew that all of that sin was washed away in the way she adoringly watched him with that grin on her face. She kept him human. That was how he explained it to himself.

"Is the Bishop prepared to lead everyone out who does not mean to fight?" Isaiah asked, meeting his father in the inner bailey of the compound.

"Everything is set. Isabelle goes with them," Godric said, his mind somewhere other than on this conversation.

Isaiah stared penetratingly. "I was not made aware that Isabelle was here. Why did you bring her?"

Godric came out of his thoughts. "Because she asked to accompany me and I did not see the danger in it."

"There is danger enough now. What if the sappers find the tunnel?" Isaiah persisted. "No one inside the city is safe, even if they make it out, they could be cut off and surrounded on the beachhead."

"Isaiah, what will you have me do, keep her here" Godric asked impatiently, "where the siege is sure to be bloody no matter what our tactics be?"

"I am sorry, father. You are right. She stands a better chance to leave with the others." Isaiah changed the subject and moved to strategy. "Your fighters and horses are in the hall," he indicated the lofty building to which the fireplace and the tunnel entrance belong. "The archers are concealed on the battlements. Sarah has instructed them. Faramir and I will be near the gatehouse. Once the sappers come through they will come to the gatehouse to raise the portcullis. This will allow a number of enemy soldiers through and into the courtyard. Stay hidden until the gates are closed again."

"But that means you and Faramir will be left to your own devices for an unknown period of time," Godric interjected with some doubt.

"There should only be three or four men in the gatehouse to raise the portcullis." Isaiah moved quickly with his father into the hall where men were assembling and weaponry being inventoried. "And when it is down again, cutting Edward's men in half, the fight can begin."

Godric nodded crisply. "It is a good plan." He clapped his son on the shoulder and gave him a long look.

Isaiah knew what his father was communicating. He reached up and grabbed his father's shoulder and pulled him into a firm embrace. "May God bless and watch over you, father," he said.

"No father could be prouder, son. I have full confidence in you," Godric said in departure.

Isaiah moved off to the gatehouse where Faramir waited for him.

Godric watched as the tunnel was filled with the feeble, the women and the children and then shut up as the procession headed off into the blackness, then put his fighters into order and awaited the sappers.

Claire watched as Christopher exchanged one tunic of gold and scarlet for another. He was now a man under Edward's banner.

He looked up from the belt he was fastening around the loose hanging tunic. He held her gaze for a moment before Claire averted her attention to the corpse whose chain mail she was struggling to take off.

Christopher cleared his throat uncomfortably and crouched next to Claire.

"Thank you again for your services," he offered with a sheepish smile.

Claire avoided looking at him and searched for a clasp on the mail shirt of the dead man before her. "I had to do it. I distracted you." She was silent.

Christopher raised the man's arms over his head and began inching the mail shirt up over the slack face.

Claire heaved a heavy sigh and sat back in the mud. "I did not kill any of the Slytherin guard at the stable."

Christopher tugged the shirt free and handed it to Claire. "I killed them," he said matter-of-factly. "Do you want the boots?"

Claire shook her head, unable to speak. She blinked back a tear and hoped no one would see. "They would not fit me," she said finally, quickly wiping at a stray tear on her cheek.

Christopher stood and, almost too late, forgot that he should not extend a hand to help Claire up from the ground. Instead he retracted the hand as Claire almost reached out to take it and placed it self consciously against the hilt of his sword.

Claire pushed herself off of the forest floor and collected the tunic and chain mail, finally lifting the helmet of the dead man—not even a man, more her own age, just a boy, really.

"Do you need help?" Christopher offered in a whisper, looking around for eyes and attentions that might have wandered their way.

Claire stared down at the gear in her hands and shook her head again.

Christopher followed her to a stand of trees off of the path, the sounds of their party of soldiers growing dimmer in the thick quiet of the wood.

"I will stay here," Christopher said, pointing to a spot by a pine. He turned his back and rested his helmet under one arm.

Claire went still further into the underbrush with her costume and looked back periodically, embarrassed at having to cause so much fuss.

Turning hesitantly to see how she was coming along, Christopher watched as Claire slipped one arm from her soiled tunic. There was a little bit of blood. Her fall earlier had apparently injured her.

But it was not the superficial wound that had Christopher's attention.

Remembering his post, he turned and watched the path again. Soon, though, he found himself turning to catch sight of her perfectly smooth, white shoulder, her slender arm. This was the only skin exposed and Christopher was content to just stare at that shoulder. No need to go further.

But Claire turned to speak to him and their eyes met.

There was nothing accusatory in her tone. She was accepting of the attention, and did not regard it further but to say, "The tie at the back is knotted. I was in a hurry, you see, when I had dressed last."

Christopher did not reply.

He took his knife from his belt and crouched behind her.

Fingers lightly grazing her bare back, he held the knot away from her skin and slid the knife beneath it, fraying it and finally cutting the tie away.

He half expected her to say something about the impropriety of the scene.

But what came from her next surprised him more than anything else about her: "I killed him."

"Killed who?" he asked, replacing the knife in his belt.

"That man," Claire answered. "I shot him between the eyes."

"And I am grateful," Christopher interjected, catching her tearful gaze and holding it earnestly, as if to communicate how much.

"I thought I could do this, Christopher," Claire admitted finally.

He admired the way his name sounded when she said it. She had not called him by his name before.

"But now I have doubts," Claire confided. Her tears were falling freely now and her face communicated such intense anguish, Christopher was sure he had never felt something like that before. He was sympathizing with her now.

Unknowingly, his hand moved to her bare shoulder and he pulled her to him, the sensation of her skin under his hand would be something he would remember all of his life, he thought.

Then she turned and put her arms around his neck, pressing her lips fervently to his.

He answered her kiss with another.

"Stay here. I will come for you when it is over," he said with lips pressed against her. "I will be your sword."

"I am not a coward," Claire said finally. "But I cannot live, knowing I have taken a life."

"I would not want you to kill anymore. I love you as you are now," Christopher admitted.

Claire held him at arm's length, a look of surprise on her face. "Do you?"

"Yes," Christopher admitted. "And I pray you feel as I do."

Claire surveyed him a while longer. "I do feel as you do, Christopher."

He could not fight the smile that came to his smudged and grimy face. "Say it again."

"I love you, Christopher. You and no other," Claire repeated, throwing her arms around him and holding him to her as she felt his grip around her waist tighten.

The commander's distant call for departure broke them apart finally.

"Stay here," Christopher instructed. "I will come for you."

"You will not forget about me?" Claire teased, picking up his English helmet and placing it over his rough and tangled curls.

"No," he answered with a smile.

She pulled his helmet closer to her face until his nose touched hers and then let him go with a final kiss.

For Isabelle the wonders of the underground river held little interest when she wanted to be with her father.

After all, he had promised when they made their journey down from the school that he would take her for a horse ride through the country.

Now, according to the Bishop Elfred, they were leaving Christchurch altogether. And her father was not among the travelers of the underground cave.

One thing, beside the fact that there was also a river, was different about this cave from the dungeons of her school. There was a large pounding sound that came from the other side of the rock, like a giant hammering just on the opposite side of the wall.

This did not frighten Isabelle at first, but feeding off of the reactions of fear from the maids and children around her, Isabelle soon grew to dislike the noise.

She began to think of ways to slip out of this boat, crowded with six other children. But they would tell the maid, even if she crept as quietly as she could into the water.

Her moment of distraction finally came, however, when the hammering grew so loud and so furious that it culminated in one large crash that shook the tunnel and even brought some of the ceiling of the cave down on them.

A sharp piece of rock fell right into the boat and hit a girl next to Isabelle, also punching a hole in the boat.

In the chaos of falling rock, a good few of the torches that lighted their path were lost.

Isabelle sank out of the drowning boat and past others flailing about in blackness so complete that it resembled the grave. The current was carrying her and some others, prone and floating, back up to the place in the walled city where they entered the cave through a secret fireplace passage.

Isabelle's companions on the current were not moving and she knew that she was alone with the dead.

She continued to float for some distance endeavoring to be still and to keep her head above the frigid current. At a distance, from the corner of her eye, as she lay unmoving in the water, she saw the staircase pass.

Isabelle knew that it was now time to fight the current and reach the sandy place where she could climb back up to the staircase.

The river moved fast and she could not offer much resistance and soon she was tired. But she felt that if she drifted slightly to the left a little more, and then just a little more, she would hit the sandy bank and pull herself out of the tugging water.

The sand stretched away back around a bend and to where she assumed she had passed the stairs.

There were no footprints here in the sand. Most people, she reckoned, did not like staying in the river past the staircase. That was where the footprints were most abundant.

No one went past them.

A small part of Isabelle's mind did try to coax her forward into the place where no one else had gone.

But she remembered her mission and resolutely hiked back up the sandy bank, retracing the distance that the river had carried her past her intended point and finally came to the stairs.

The iron ring on the heavy stone door stood mocking her.

She saw through a crack in the hidden fireplace entrance, fire. But it was not coming from the grate just beyond the half opened door, but from the larger space that was the hall itself.

Isabelle put an arm through the door and then shut her eyes against the heat of the burning room and pushed the rest of her small body through the opening.

A tapestry fell from atop the fireplace burning in front of her and trapping her in the fireplace of that great burning hall.

Faramir heard the crash and bang of an explosion somewhere below the city. It was muted by several feet of rock and soil, and the powder that had been used must have been weak if it could not blow through the flagstone of the city's lowest levels.

He estimated that there would be at least thirty minute's wait more until the sappers appeared in the inner bailey.

He saw Isaiah's calculated expression of thought and guessed what he had been wondering: had the tunnel been struck by the blast?

Faramir hoped that it had not been the case. After all, no one knew of the tunnel from the city. They could not have been seeking it.

But it could have been stumbled upon just the same.

That was when the first trebuchet launched a rock at the gatehouse wall.

The foundation of the spiral structure rocked.

Faramir and Isaiah exchanged looks.

Hesitantly they both left their concealed posts in a small armory room just off of the main mechanism room.

Through arrow slits in the stairwell Faramir could see at least five wooden catapult-like structures, trebuchets, lined up behind milling groups of soldiers.

Added to the weakened structure of the walls by the underground blast, the impact of several rocks the size of paving stones being hurled at the gatehouse could topple the thing.

He prayed that the sappers would show themselves quickly.

If the gates were opened and the English given entrance, the stoning would certainly be halted—no use in ruining perfectly functional walls.

As if in literal answer of Faramir's request, two men, swords in hand appeared on the staircase.

A look of shock painted both of their faces. They had expected the gatehouse to be as empty as the rest of the city appeared.

Sadly, there was one answer to their speedy arrival: the tunnel had been found out.

This was written on Isaiah's face as well.

Realization in Isaiah turned into steely resolve that he transformed into raw might.

In one drawn swing of his sword, one of their visitor's swords fell clanging on the stairs, joined by his hand.

The man cried out, his cry stifled with one strong arm wrapped around him, Isaiah's finger's clasped hard over his mouth.

"You would not want to give us away?" Isaiah asked, bent near the man's ear. Before an answer could come forth from the man, Isaiah's sword rent a tear in his gut, exposing intestines.

The man gurgled in final comment and fell heavily to one side of the narrow stair.

He turned and found Faramir and the other soldier nowhere.

He heard them, however, at the top of the stair in the mechanism room.

There was barely room for the large iron winch that served to draw up the portcullis, let alone space for hand-to-hand combat.

Isaiah skirted the wall to one side.

As Faramir backed the other hapless visitor in his direction, Isaiah easily stuck a foot out causing Faramir's opponent to lose his footing.

He fell against the winch wheel. There was a sound of a bone snapping.

Faramir was on top of him in an instant. He buried his sword in the man's chest.

The grimace of the defeated soldier's face would be something that Faramir would find hard to shake from his memory.

The dying man rasped for a moment and then his features fell slack.

"Help me move him," Isaiah commanded.

Faramir replaced his bloody sword in scabbard and took one arm, toppling the dead body to the stone floor.

Isaiah kicked at the body with more force than needed to clear enough space to gain a footing under the heavy crank.

The exertion of the task showed on both of their faces as slowly, inch after inch, the crank was lifted, running over one iron tooth on the wheel before sinking quickly into the recessed groove, only to be coaxed one tooth further.

"I did not count on having to raise the damn gate myself and invite our enemies in," Isaiah grunted as they strained to lift the crank.

"That was to be their job," Faramir answered, nodding in the direction of the dead English soldier bleeding at their feet. "It is truly a shame they forced us to kill them when we did."

Godric's men and horses had been dispersed by his command.

Large gathering places such as the great hall would be the first place the sappers would look before they secured the city and opened the gate.

Some horses were left in the stable after they had all been assembled and counted.

The riders were also concealed there near their horses, some in rafters; others beneath the hay.

Godric now watched from a dark corner of the inner bailey, behind a merchant's empty stall. Here he lay waiting for the sappers, watching with a vantage of most of the courtyard, wary of any possible entrance that the enemy may make use of.

He did not wait long when his worst feared scenario was played out.

Godric held his breath has he watched six sappers inch through the doors of the banquet hall where his men had just recently assembled—the very room whose fireplace stood guard as the entrance to the tunnel.

How long would it be before he could get into that tunnel and see if the elderly, women and children down there in the river were safe? Perhaps they had made it past the point of the blast before the sappers had broken through. He prayed for them, and most of all for his daughter. Immediately regretting the decision to rely on the tunnel for the concealment of such a number of innocent and undefended people momentarily paralyzed him with guilt.

The six sappers spread out.

Two milled about by the entrance of the hall, two headed in the direction of the stables and armory and two disappeared into the gatehouse.

Godric turned in his crouched position and looked up into the battlements above him.

Sarah was peering over awaiting a signal from him.

Godric motioned with two fingers at the sappers guarding the hall.

As they turned and retreated back into the hall Sarah's arrow cut one down silently. When the other turned to speak to his companion another arrow caught him in the shoulder, only wounding him.

As he stumbled backward, the soldier opened his mouth to call out to the others. Sarah's third arrow caught him in the chest.

The soldier lay back, gasping.

Godric checked the gatehouse and the stable for the others. He ran back to the hall and grabbed the dying man by the throat.

"How many are in the tunnel?" Godric commanded through clenched teeth. "Tell me and I shall ease your suffering."

"Two remain in the tunnel," the soldier answered shakily.

Godric nodded. "God speed," he offered, producing a knife he slit the soft flesh and arteries of the man's throat.

The portcullis began to rise at a distance behind him.

Godric turned and moved down an alley to the left of the hall. Two of his soldiers lay in wait, concealed behind a stand of empty barrels outside of a cooper's stall.

"There are two in the tunnel," Godric ordered. "Save as many of Christchurch's citizens as you can and I shall be eternally in your debt."

The two Gryffindor knights stood and nodded.

Godric moved silently in the direction of the stables.

Christopher was momentarily surprised when they slipped in among Edward's force around Christchurch and a soldier turned his way and inquired as to their delay in hunting up wood for the archers' fire pit.

"It is all wet wood in that forest," Christopher lied feebly before punching the questioner hard in the face, bending the nose piece on his helmet into a skewed arc.

Christopher leapt on the man, toppling him backward. Pinning him down, he removed his dagger and buried it in the man's jugular.

"What is all this?" a ranking officer in Edward's service asked, ready to meet out harsh punishment for brawling.

He saw the blood and his eyes went wide, not knowing what to make of the scene.

An arrow from another of Godric's men cut the officer's comment short and he fell forward.

Christopher looked over at the stand of siege engines and trebuchets. Most of them had been taken over by Gryffindor fighters and burned. Battles still raged over the last two flanking the gatehouse. The stoning, however, had stopped.

And soon Christopher knew why the stoning had come to a halt: the gates were opening. The city had been taken from the inside it seemed.

"It cannot be!" one of Godric's men gasped over the din of the army ahead of them pouring into the city.

Christopher looked too. A dim feeling of numb disbelief washed over him and for a moment he just stared. What had they all fought and risked their lives for? There was no one inside the city to protect.

Like lightening a sharp pain came to Christopher under one rib. He looked down at the soldier he had been pinning to the ground, his hand fell away dead, leaving Christopher's own dagger lodged in his right side.

Instantly his breathing became shallow and he gasped, never seeming to get enough air.

The English soldier had taken the knife from his own throat as his life ebbed away and stabbed Christopher in his moment of distraction and stark disbelief. _What a sorry soldier I turned out to be._

Christopher thought of Claire once more, remembering the feel of her bare skin. It made the burning in his lungs less painful.

_She will still be waiting for me when it is over. _

Christopher sank to the ground and slumped into a crouching position, no longer able to hold himself up.

All around him men were flooding from the sloping field into the city.

And then the gate crashed down again.

Christopher closed his eyes.


End file.
